


a prayer for which no words exist

by Eliane



Series: landscapes of war [1]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Angst, Character Study, Cuddling & Snuggling, First Kiss, First Time, Happy Ending, Late Night Conversations, M/M, Sleeping Together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-17
Updated: 2015-12-11
Packaged: 2018-04-09 16:08:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 34,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4355498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eliane/pseuds/Eliane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Louis is a few seconds away from blowing up a rather important section of the New York subway when he sees Harry for the first time."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1.

**Author's Note:**

> This has been influenced by so many things I wouldn't even know where to start, but in short it has a lot to do with my love for dystopias & the many books and movies I've read & watched on the topic; my absolute love for history & philosophy, and, finally, a certain feeling of nostalgia for old school HP fics. 
> 
> This is the most ambitious thing I've written in a while & the most ambitious thing I've ever attempted to write in English so let's hope it goes well. 
> 
> A big thank you to my lovely [Marianna](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sunshiner/pseuds/sunshiner) for the brainstorming, listening to me complain about this all day long and helping me make it readable & [Clara](http://barefootau.tumblr.com/) for proofreading it. Thanks to [Jen](http://yslhoe.tumblr.com/), as always, without whom I would never have started writing in English anyway. 
> 
> The title comes from the poem "You are Jeff" by Richard Siken.

“People like to think war means something.”

Richard Siken, “Detail of the fire”, in _War of the foxes_.

 

Louis is a few seconds away from blowing up a rather important section of the New York subway when he sees Harry for the first time.

He’s standing on the platform, near the stairs, and seems as shocked as Louis to see someone down there. Louis doesn’t blame him; he isn’t supposed to be here. Neither of them are.

He doesn’t have the time to figure out which side the man’s on, but he’s not so jaded that he’ll take the chance to let someone who could be an innocent bystander – at least as innocent as anybody is these days – die. So he runs towards him, grabs his hand and yells at him: “Run!” It’s not subtle, but they are in a rush. They both climb the stairs as fast as they can and the only thing that Louis can think about is that he hopes, he hopes he hasn’t fucked up the explosive charge this time.

They make it out of the subway in time, but Louis knows they are not safe yet. They need to go as far away as possible from what’s soon going to be the scene of a terrorist attack. The plan was to go back to the headquarters, an abandoned penthouse in Brooklyn he and the boys settled in a few months ago, but he can’t do that before he’s had time to decide what he’s going to do with the stranger still attached to his hand.

In the end, he decides to stop halfway. They’re close enough to the headquarters to be safe, but not too close that it would endanger the headquarters’ location if the stranger happened to work with the government. Not that Louis can think of any government agent that would voluntarily take a stroll through a long closed section of the subway in the middle of the night.Those you encounter down there are usually wanderers or fighters – but that’s the thing, these days. You never really know.

For a few seconds, he thinks about letting the stranger go. He saved his life and maybe they can leave it at that. But, no. The stranger has seen his face and could describe him in details to any government agent. Louis has no choice. He’s going to have to take him back with him to the headquarters and let Liam interrogate him while they try to figure out what to do with this new parameter.

They’re resting against a wall, still holding hands. Louis turns to take a proper look at the stranger for the first time. He’s taller than Louis, dark hair held into a bun, a few strands loosely falling against his jaw. His eyes are bright green and he seems a bit lost, but not actively hostile. It will do.

“Listen,” Louis says quickly. “I’m going to take you back with me to our headquarters. You’re going to come willingly, not make a fuss and won’t try to escape or you’ll regret me getting you out of that subway. Is that clear?”

It’s an empty threat. Louis doesn’t actually have any means to coerce the stranger into obedience, but he hopes that having just blown up a part of the subway will work to his advantage. The stranger blinks, slowly, and nods.

“Right”, Louis says. “Let’s go then.”

They start in the direction of the headquarters again, moving fast but not running, their hands still joined.

The first time Louis sees Harry, he grabs his hand and saves his life. He doesn’t know yet that he just saved his own life too.

\---

Months later, he’ll think that, if he had to meet Harry now, he’s not sure he’d lose a few precious seconds to grab a stranger’s hand. He’ll wish he’d feel guilty about it, but he’ll just feel a resignation that comes from too many lost battles, too many sleepless nights, too many shattered hopes.

He’ll wonder, idly, if this is how it starts. Losing your humanity. By laying awake at night, one day, with a beautiful boy sleeping next to you, and thinking of a different scenario, where instead of taking him with you because that’s the right thing to do, you leave him behind to die. He’ll wonder if he’s not simply becoming more human. If this temporary loss of empathy isn’t something only man can experience, because sometimes, to survive, you need to let go whatever might hold you back. Things like empathy and saving strangers.

Then Harry will open his eyes, slowly, and mumble “Louis?” in that rough way he has in the mornings, when he’s not really awake yet, and Louis will blink and blink and blink to stop himself from crying. He will take Harry in his arms and whisper “I would still grab your hand, I swear, I would still grab your hand, Haz.” He’ll sound a bit mad, a bit broken. Harry won’t say anything in response, he will let himself be held and it will feel like he’s the one doing the holding. In a way, he will be.

That’s when Louis will realize that they have to end this, somehow. Everybody has a breaking point. And Louis will still be lucid enough to recognize he’s just reached his.

\---

When they arrive in front of the headquarters, Zayn is sitting on the stairs, smoking a cigarette. He takes one look at the stranger standing next to Louis and says, “Liam isn’t going to like this, Louis.”

Louis huffs but doesn’t answer, because he knows full well that Zayn is right. He also thinks that there isn't much else he could have done. The subway was supposed to be deserted, after all.

When Zayn realizes that Louis isn’t going to answer, he asks:

“So, who is this?”

And well. That’s a really good question.

“This is…”

“Harry”, the stranger says. “Hi.”

“Right. Let’s just ~~,~~ get in, please.”

The building they’re staying in must have been beautiful, at some point, when it was still being taken care of regularly and people other than the four of them lived in it.There were still some remnants of how it used to be, hidden behind the decrepit wallpaper and the heavy layer of dust that has settled on every surface.

Their flat is different, though. Not because it’s in better shape than the rest of the building, but because it’s being lived in. There’s no dust, only the clutter that four people sharing the same space inevitably end up making, even with possessions as sparse as theirs.

Louis opens the door and motions for Harry to follow him into the living room, where they spend most of their time. In one corner of the big room there’s a sofa and the television, with a coffee table where a pile of Zayn’s books is permanently perched in precarious equilibrium. The other corner is full of Niall’s computers and electronics, and the various materials he uses to make bombs. Louis usually stays as far away from this corner as he can. An enormous wooden table, with mismatched chairs scattered around it, occupies the main space of the room.One of its sides is covered with maps and papers, while the other is mostly clean except for a plate or two. Niall and Liam are lounging on the sofa, watching the telly. Louis supposes they’re waiting to see if the explosion makes the news, or if they’ll try to conceal it and pretend it never happened. That there is no one ~~,~~ out there, still resisting.

Niall greets them with a smile, Liam with a frown.

“Who’s this?” he asks, with more hostility than Zayn did.

“This,” Louis says, “is Harry. I kind of found him in the subway. Come with me for a moment? I'll explain.”

Liam nods, not that he has much choice, and Louis gestures for Harry to sit down.

“I’ll be back in a few minutes,” he tells him.

He takes Liam by the arm and leads him into his room. Louis sits down on his bed, a sudden rush of dizziness and exhaustion going through him. The tension and adrenaline that had kept him alert and moving until now are slowly fading and, for an instant, he feels like he’s going to pass out. He closes his eyes, inhales deeply, and opens them again to find Liam staring at him. His expression is closed off and Louis can’t tell if he’s in trouble or not. He decides that it doesn’t really matter. He had to take a decision on the spot and he chose to do what he thought was the right thing. Liam can’t blame him for that.

“Care to explain why we currently have a stranger sitting in our living room?” he asks.

And yes, Louis can explain.

“He was in the subway when I was about to get out. I wasn’t going to let him die, so I took him with me and then I realized I couldn’t really let him go now that he had seen my face. So I took him back with me and thought that we would figure out what to do with him all together. I’m sorry, I just… couldn’t leave him there to die.”

“No, you’re right,” Liam replies. “I’m not blaming you, Louis, but this complicates things. God, what if he’s with the government? We’re not equipped to keep someone prisoner!”

“I don’t think,“ Louis begins, “I don’t think we’ll have to. If he’s with the government, we’re fucked and there’s nothing we can do about it now. But, if he isn’t, I guess we can turn this to our advantage. He already knows our faces and he knows that I was busy blowing things up in the middle of the night. But he only knows that because he was also in the subway long after curfew. At this point, it’s much more probable that he'd be willing to help us, or at least stay with us without making a fuss.”

“You want to let him stay with us?”

“He knows our faces, Liam. It’s safer to keep him with us now than let him go back to wandering in the streets, or the subway, or whatever it is he does.”

Louis sighs.

“Let’s just ~~,~~ talk with him, yeah? I literally kind of just kidnapped him and I’m pretty sure he must not be in the best of spirits right now. I know it’s inconvenient and scary and that we don’t know which side he’s on, but I think that we should just… talk to him. Figure him out.”

Liam stays silent for a few minutes.

“What do you think of him?”

“Think of him? I’ve barely spoken ne sentence to him.”

“No, I mean, what’s your gut feeling? You usually have pretty good instincts, always had. Do you… Do you think we should give him a chance?”

Louis closes his eyes. He feels so tired, and he knows that tonight’s mission was just the beginning. Something to test the waters, a statement of sorts. Yet, it still took weeks of planning and researching and driving themselves mad with the lack of sleep. He suddenly can see the next months in front of him, so clearly it’s almost blinding. He can see more sleepless nights and arguments, and a feeling of exhaustion so heavy it’s not even exhaustion anymore, more like a second skin. He can see all this about a warm hand in his, gripping his fingers tight as they run away from an explosion in the dark.

He opens his eyes and says “yes.”

\---

“I want in.”

They’re sitting around the table, Harry across from Liam and Louis, hot cups of tea in front of them. Liam doesn’t even have time to open his mouth and start interrogating Harry, because Harry speaks first.

“You want in?” Liam repeats, confused.

Harry nods, slowly.

“Yes. You’re kind of a rebellious group, right? Working against the government? I want in.”

“Can I ask why?” Louis interjects before Liam can speak.

“I’m in a… difficult situation right now. And I need help. Staying with you, helping you, would also be helping me,” Harry says.

“What difficult situation?” Louis asks.

“I’m a photographer. Mostly I work for private clients, I do weddings, that kind of stuff. I also take other kinds of pictures, for myself. What I see when I’m walking, things that capture my attention. It seems that… It seems that some of my work has come across the eye of someone high placed and they want to hire me. They didn’t tell me what it’s for exactly, but I can make an educated guess. Especially considering who wants to hire me.”

“And who’s that?”

“Ben Winston.”

“Right,” Louis says. Ben Winston. The unofficial mastermind of the government’s propaganda program. “So, what do you want exactly?”

“I want to disappear” Harry answers immediately. “I can’t work for the government and I can’t say no either. I want an out.”

“And what if we ask you to take the job?” Liam suggests. “It would be more useful for us if you were working as a double agent.”

Harry laughs. There’s nothing really pretty about it, it’s low and rough and devoid of joy. “I’m a terrible liar,” he says. “I would be exposed in two minutes. That’s why I need to disappear.”

The entire room stays quiet for a few moments, before Harry continues:

“I know that you don’t know me and can’t trust me. I don’t know you either. I don’t know if I can trust you and I’m taking a leap of faith here. All I’m saying is that I need to lay low for a while and I think that we could help each other. I already know that you’re somehow involved in the resistance, and I know your faces. It’s safer for you to keep me with you, and it’s safer for me to be in a place with people that I know are working against the government.”

He turns his gaze toward Louis, looking at him intently, like Louis is the one he actually needs to convince.

“I’m just saying, it makes sense,” he finishes.

It does. Louis glances at Liam, who nods slightly before looking back at Zayn and Niall, who are following the conversation from their usual places on the sofa. They both nod, too. Because Harry’s right, there is no way for either party to get out of this situation and pretend nothing happened when they already know too much about the other. These days, knowing a name and a face is already too much. Harry doesn’t know them and they don’t know Harry, but they’re going to have to trust each other whether they want it or not. They can only move forward, together.

Louis stands up and says: “Right, then. Let’s get you settled in.”

\---

“You’re going to sleep in my room, if that’s alright,” Louis says. Harry nods in acquiescence and Louis continues: “We only have three bedrooms. Zayn and Liam each have their own room and share one bathroom. Niall keeps odd hours and usually kips on the sofa. When he’s too tired he shares with one of us. Well, only Liam or Zayn now. I share the second bathroom with Niall,” he says, pointing to the door across the corridor. “And here is my room.”

He opens the door and they enter Louis’ bedroom. They have been living in this flat for a few months now and Louis has long become accustomed to his room. He can’t help but wonder, what it must look like to the eyes of someone taking it in for the first time. The furniture is sparse, like it is in the rest of the flat, with just his bed in the middle, a nightstand and a half empty closet. Louis only stays in his room when he needs to sleep, usually preferring the livelier living room, where at least one of his boys is always present. It’s not that he hates being alone, per se, but it leaves him too much time with his own thoughts, with the things he can’t help reminiscing about.He does enough of that during the night. The day belongs to the living room and Niall’s laughter, making plans with Liam and sitting quietly on the sofa with Zayn. He wonders how Harry will fit in the routine they’ve established for themselves. If he’ll take root and somehow learn to grow with them, or if he’ll stay as he is now, a mismatched piece of a puzzle in which he doesn’t really fit. He figures he’ll know soon enough.

“You can sleep on the side you prefer I don’t really mind,” says Louis.

“Is it ok with you if I sleep in my pants?" Harry asks. "I didn’t really take clothes with me. Didn’t think I would end up sleeping in someone’s else bed tonight,”

And fuck, Louis hadn’t thought about that. They’ll have to find a way to go back to Harry’s flat and retrieve what he needs. He makes a mental note to organize this with Liam tomorrow.

“Sure,” he answers. “I can let you borrow a t-shirt if you prefer?”

“No, I’m fine. I mean, I’m fine with sleeping like this if you are?”

Louis shrugs in response. He feels too drained to be picky about this kind of stuff and, well. He may be exhausted, but he isn’t actually blind, and he’s not going to complain about Harry sleeping almost naked next to him. It might become a problem in the future, but he’s quite sure he won’t have to deal with it tonight.

They go to bed quietly, awkwardly bidding the other goodnight.

\---

Louis can’t sleep.

He’s exhausted from the day, but still too keyed up and anxious to be able to rest. There’s a body ~~,~~ next to him ~~,~~ and, even though Louis isn’t touching him, he can’t forget that Harry's there. He can’t forget that he’s something unknown, that he introduced himself as an ally, but he could as well be their downfall. The thing is, Louis isn’t the most optimistic of people, and yet he wants to believe that Harry's telling them the truth. There’s something heartfelt in him, not innocent but genuine. It’s in the way he held on tight to Louis’ hand, in the look of surprise he sported when he first saw Louis on the subway platform. In the way he said: “I want in”, like he had no other choice. Right now, Harry is something akin to Schrödinger’s paradox. Louis can’t know if he’s going to help them or crush them. Except there’s no box for Louis to open, he can only wait and see how it plays out. He's never been really good at waiting.

“Are you awake?” Harry whispers, effectively interrupting Louis’ thoughts.

He takes a few moments to recover from the shock before answering: “Yeah, I am.”

“I’m sorry, we don’t have to talk if you don’t want to. It’s just,” Harry chuckles, “I feel like my thoughts are driving me crazy.”

“Yeah, I get the feeling,” Louis answers. And then, because he can’t help himself: “So, did you actually meet Ben Winston?”

Harry laughs. “I did, yes.”

“How was it?”

“Awful. His office is tacky and he has like, all these pictures of him on his walls? I know we’re living under shitty circumstances, but it’s like he googled “how to be a dictator for dummies ” honestly.”

“I’m not surprised,” Louis answers. “But like. Apart from the distasteful decoration, what was it like?”

“Scary,” Harry replies. “I didn’t know what they wanted from me. Like, my business is doing well, I guess, but I’m not really a well-known photographer. I didn’t know how they had found me or if it had anything to do with my work. When I learnt that it had, I was honestly relieved. I suppose I’d had time to imagine much worse.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Was that”, Louis begins. “Was that why you were in the subway station?”

“Yes. I mean, I wasn’t specifically looking for you, but I’d heard that some groups take refuge in the abandoned parts of the subway, sometimes. I guess I wasn’t expecting to get almost blown up.”

“Sorry for that,” Louis offers.

That’s when Harry turns to face him. The room is dark, only illuminated by the soft light of the moon outside, yet it suddenly seems incredibly bright. It feels like Louis is seeing Harry for the first time. He’s young, Louis can tell, probably younger than he is. His expression is a mixture of innocent and far too serious for his age – something about the crease between his eyebrows. His eyes, though, are incredibly green and earnest as they settle on Louis’ face. Louis wonders what Harry is seeing. If it’s the same strange mixture of young and old, of innocent and jaded. If his face is as much of as mystery to Harry as Harry’s is to him.

“For what it’s worth,” Harry says, “I’m glad it’s you I met. I’m glad you took my hand and trusted me enough to take me back with you.”

If Louis were less exhausted, he would retort that he didn’t actually trust Harry. Still doesn't. But Louis is tired. He’s tired and he feels infinitely fragile and delicate, like he’s ready to explode at any moment. Like one right word aimed at him may shatter him. Like a diamond almost nothing can break except a well-aimed blow in the right spot. So he takes Harry’s hand in his, intertwining their fingers together.

“I don’t know about tomorrow,” he answers, “but for now, I’m glad I did too.”

Harry closes his eyes and fells asleep like that, clutching Louis’ hand.

Louis doesn’t follow him, not yet. He watches him. Watches how his breathing slows down, how he sleeps with his mouth open, tiny breaths making the strands of his hair dance around his face. He watches him until his eyes start burning, until he can’t keep them open anymore.

Tomorrow, he thinks. Tomorrow he’ll go back to being cautious and treating Harry like an unknown equation. Tomorrow he’ll remember the danger and how easily things could fall apart. Tomorrow he’ll remember that he’s twenty-five, in a world at war. Now, he can allow himself this moment. Falling asleep with his hand clasped in a stranger’s grip. He can allow himself to believe that nothing bad will come out of it.

Harry’s quiet breathing lulls him to sleep.


	2. 2.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It’s not an ordinary morning but, for a few minutes, he can pretend that it is, and that's enough."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [Marianna](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sunshiner/pseuds/sunshiner) for reminding me that commas are, actually, a thing & of course to [Jen](http://yslhoe.tumblr.com/).
> 
> And thanks to everyone who's reading this. :)

2.

“Everyone understands this. Everyone wants a battlefield.”

Richard Siken, “Detail of the fire”, in _War of the foxes_.

 

Louis wakes up alone. He has barely slept five hours according to the clock, but he feels more rested than he has in weeks. The other side of the bed is empty, but he remembers the previous night vividly – running with Harry through dark streets, making the decision to keep him with them, falling asleep next to him. He gets up and dresses quickly before making his way to the living room, where the sight of Liam and Niall peacefully sitting at the table in front of empty plates greets him. Zayn must still be asleep and Harry… Where is Harry?

“Harry,” Niall answers him gleefully when he asks him “is making us breakfast. Full English.”

Louis raises an eyebrow but doesn’t retort anything. He doesn’t know much about Harry yet, but hating Ben Winston and being able to cook a full English breakfast are two very good points in his book. If the breakfast is actually edible, that is. It will certainly change them from Liam’s barely cooked eggs.

“Right, I’m going to go see if I can help him with anything.”

He doesn’t really feel like helping, but he wants to gauge Harry in the daylight, alone. Their discussion the previous night was… Not weird, but unexpected. He hadn’t expected Harry to make him laugh and he certainly hadn’t expected to feel something resembling kinship. And there’s something in him that wants to know if what he felt was only born from exhaustion and the madness of bringing back a stranger he has saved into his home – into his life- or if there’s something more to it. If the feeling is still there, hasn’t disappeared.

When he enters the kitchen, Harry is softly humming to himself, low voice reverberating in the silent room.

“So, I’ve heard you’re actually here to improve our diet?” Louis asks.

Harry turns to face him and smiles when he sees Louis. And well. He has dimples. Louis wasn’t expecting _dimples,_ Christ.

“I’m trying, at least,” Harry says. “You don’t have much for me to work with.”

“Yeah, we’re not the most cooking friendly blokes. We manage, though.”

“Well, I hope you’ll like it.”

“It honestly can’t be worse than what we usually cook for ourselves,” Louis answers. “I was thinking. If you’re going to stay here, we need to retrieve some stuff from your flat. Like clothes and some possessions you want to take with you? And we need to do it quick, today if possible. If the government is waiting for your answer, it’s not going to take them long to discover that you’ve disappeared.”

“Yeah, sure. When do you think we should go?”

They should go immediately. There’s a sense of urgency Louis is feeling, telling him that they should get this done as soon as possible. But it’s broad daylight and there’s just too much risk to get caught, especially if the government is watching Harry. They’ll have to go at night, after curfew. Louis says as much to Harry.

“That’s fine with me,” Harry responds. “Can you help me bring the plates to the living room?”

“Sure.”

Louis grabs the bacon while Harry takes care of the eggs. It’s easy, the way they move around each other, and there’s something in the calm domesticity that almost makes Louis believe that it’s not the first time they’ve done this, that this is just an ordinary morning in a long line of similarly ordinary mornings, with nothing more foreboding about it than the usual – going to work, having to deal with irritating colleagues, thinking about paying the rent, what to have for dinner tonight.`

It’s not, though, and Liam and Niall’s ecstatic faces when they put the plates on the table quickly remind him of this. There’s nothing ordinary, not about this morning, norabout what’s happening outside.

It’s easy to forget, sometimes, for a few moments. After all, people still go to work, when they’ve been able to keep their job, and Louis guesses that most of them still think about those ordinary things – colleagues, taking care of their family, how they’re going to pay their taxes. It’s just that there’s another fear, looming over all of them, the fear that this may be the last day they’ll worry about them. That, somewhere, a simple government agent or someone higher placed will decide to make an example of them and have them arrested for whatever reason pleases them. No one is safe because there are no rules to this game or, if there are, they change constantly and much too quickly for anyone to learn to play by them.

Louis looks at his eggs, suddenly not hungry anymore. The relative peace he had felt since he’d woken up is gone, buried under layers of fear and uncertainty.

“Nothing about yesterday on the news?” he asks Liam.

“Nothing yet, no. I’ll try to see if anyone has heard of it at work, though.”

“You work?” Harry says, surprised.

“One of us has to,” Liam answers simply. “The lease is under my name and it allows one of us to get out during the day, hear the gossip, enquire about things, you know.” Then, addressing Louis again: “Let’s give it another day. If I haven’t heard of anything heard of anything at the office or on the news by then, we’ll get on with plan B.”

Louis nods, still staring at his abandoned breakfast. He wonders what it would be like if this was, indeed, an ordinary morning. If, instead of being people who met because they fight the same war, they had met at uni and decided to share a flat, all together. If the idea of Liam going to work, every morning, didn’t cripple him with anxiety. If he too was able to go outside during the day without having to carry false documents.

He feels something nudging his leg, under the table, and looks up to see Harry staring at him with a questioning expression. There’s no way Louis could tell him about the lump in his throat, the raw ache under his skin.At least not now, with Niall and Liam eating breakfast with them, the sun illuminating the room.

So he shakes his head, slightly, trying to convey that he's fine, and takes a bit of his eggs. They’re more than edible, if a bit cold, yet Louis feels like he can’t taste anything.

He glances at Harry again and gives him a small smile of reassurance.

It’s not an ordinary morning but, for a few minutes, he can pretend that it is, and that's enough.

\--- 

“Do you live far away?”

They’ve waited after curfew to go out, as planned, and the night is dark around them. They are walking slowly and efficiently, mindful of every corner of every street, avoiding the soft glowing light of the street lamps. It’s a game Louis knows how to play effortlessly, and Harry quietly follows him, much like he did the night before.

“No, I live near the subway station you, hmm, _visited_ yesterday.”

“Have you been living here long?” Louis asks.He might as well take advantage of their walk to learn more about Harry.

“A few years, yeah,” Harry answers. “I followed my boyfriend of the time” – at that, he gives Louis a quick glance, and Louis nods slightly because it’s _fine_ –“and when we broke up he decided to go back to England, and I decided to stay.” He shrugs. “I had already established my business and I was starting to gain a real clientele. And I liked the city.”

“When was that?”

“About three years ago, I think.”`

“So just before the Elections?”

“Yeah.”

And Louis wants to ask. He can feel the words on the tip of his tongue, his curiosity burning. Why did Harry stay _, after_ , when he still could go back to England? Why did he stay if he didn’t decide to fight at the time, yet is disapproving of the government? It’s not like Louis doesn’t know that there are nuances; that things aren’t as simple as flight or fight. Sometimes,it feels like his entire life has been about fighting, and he’s always surprised to find out that it’s not the samefor everyone. That someone could choose to stay here even after the Elections, and continue living the most normal life possible under the circumstances. He wonders what it must be like not to see everything as a battlefield, as something that you need to win, because the only other option is losing and losing is unacceptable. When he's finally about to ask, they take a turn and Harry says: “Here we are”.

“Do you want me to stay outside?” Louis asks. “I should probably keep watch while you’re gathering your stuff anyway.”

“Yeah, that’s a good idea. I’ll leave the front door open behind me, in case anything happens? My flat is on the third floor,” Harry answers. “I won’t be long.”

Louis watches Harry disappear in a building similar to his before sitting down on the stairs. He lights a cigarette he stole from Zayn and takes in the heavy perfumes of the spring night. He’s been here for more than six months, yet is constantly amazed by how different the city is from London or, any other European capital really. Most of the buildings are not nearly as tall as the movies make them to be, nor as neatly ordered. It’s messy and sometimes feels more like an unfinished sketch than a full drawn city, yet there’s something addictive to it. He wonders what it must have looked like before the Elections, when it was still bristling with life, before people fled and huge parts were abandoned, left to a slow decay. He wonders if the subway already smelt like melted iron.

A movement catches his eye, someone coming in his direction. He gets up, quickly, and enters the building. He needs to find Harry, they can’t be separated in case anything happens. His heart is beating fast and he can feel fear crippling in his veins. It’s probably nothing, someone out after curfew, but he can’t take the chance. Quietly, he climbs the stairs that leads him to Harry’s flat. The door is ajar and Louis lets himself in.

The sight that greets him is not what he expected. The flat is a mess. There’s furniture thrown haphazardly everywhere, silverware and clothes cluttering the floor, open drawers and broken glass. And, in the middle, kneeling, is Harry.

His back is facing Louis and he seems to be cradling something in his arms. The vision is both horrifying and breathtaking. There’s something incredibly pure in the sharp lines of Harry’s broad back, only illuminated by the moon outside, on his knees, amidst the chaos that yesterday was his life. Something incredibly heartbreaking in the way his back is slouching, his head bent forward, like a penitent praying for something that he can’t change.

“Harry?” Louis whispers, careful not to startle him.

Harry gets on his feet, without a word, and turns to look at Louis. There’s a pained expression on his face, something between grief and sorrow.

“Well,” he says. “I guess we weren’t quick enough.”

“I can see that,” Louis says. And he hates himself for the next words that leave his mouth, but he has to: “I think I saw someone outside. We should leave as soon as we can.”

For an instant, the pained expression on Harry’s face intensifies, before morphing into a neutral one.

“Of course,” he says. “Just give me a minute.”

Louis stands there, as he throws in a bag some clothes and books and a few items Louis can only guess must be significant to him. Harry’s flat must have been a nice place to live in before it was ransacked. It’s spacious enough and cosy, he can tell. There’s an innate sense of comfort even amidst the chaos. The thing is, Louis knows what it is, to look at your life and only see the shambles of what once was. Maybe not like this, but metaphorically. He knows the feeling of helplessness and how violated you feel at the idea that someone invaded something you thought was safe, a refuge, and took it away from you. He also knows that there’s nothing he can do to soothe Harry’s pain.

“I’m sorry,” he offers.

Harry looks at him and there’s something hard in his expression, something that almost makes Louis flinch.

“It’s fine,” Harry answers. “Can we just… My shop is not even five minutes away. I’d like to get some stuff from there too, if they haven’t gotten to it yet.”

“Sure,” Louis says. They’re running out of time.The longer they linger the more dangerous it gets, and he can still feel the weight of the silhouette he saw on the street bearing on his mind, but he can’t refuse Harry this request.

“Sure, let’s go.”

\---

They don't speak on their way back to the flat. Louis is jittery and keeps dreading that someone is going to jump out and arrest them every time they turn the corner of a street,while Harry seems lost in his thoughts.

He’ll have to tell Liam and the boys, but there’s nothing they can do about Harry’s flat. He doesn’t even know why it was ransacked. It could have been a warning as well as a punishment. There’s no way of knowing anything for sure when there are no rules.

The only rule that never changes is that the government always wins.

\--- 

“Are you okay?”

They’re lying in bed, side by side, eyes wide open.

“I’m fine,” Harry says. “It’s not like I hadn’t decided to leave this life behind, yeah?”

“There’s a difference between making the conscious decision to leave something behind and having to confront the fact that you don’t have a choice anymore.” It’s harsh, the way Louis says it, but Harry only shrugs.

“I guess I had already made up my mind a while ago? Like, the Ben Winston thing forced me to actually make my decision, but I had been thinking about joining a group for a while. So no, I wasn’t pleased to see that they had ransacked my flat but, in a way, I had already let go of it.”

“You were thinking about joining a group?” Louis asks, surprised.

“Yes,” Harry answers.

“Why now? Why didn’t you want to fight after the Elections happened?”

Harry stays silent for a moment, before saying:

“It’s not that I didn’t want to fight. I just thought that there are different ways of fighting, you know?”

Louis thinks about battlefields, both metaphorical and real. He thinks about fighting with his schoolmates because he was a bit too different from the other teenage boys of his grade, about fighting to fit in, about fighting to get out of a too small homophobic town, about feeling like he’s choking, like there’s never ever enough air and he’s suffocating. About trying to find something, anything to escape, and ending up joining a rebel group to fight for what’s right in a country that isn’t his. So no, he can’t say that he knows what Harry is talking about. He stays silent, waiting for Harry to resume his story.

“Like, I guess you can do what you and the guys are doing. That’s an upfront battle. You blow up things and try to undermine the government, and I get that you need people to do that. That, in the end, it’s how we’re gonna be able to put an end to this nightmare. But I’m not a fighter you know? I never thought I would make a really good asset for a rebel group. So, when the Elections happened, and after the confusion and the riots had died down and they made it seem like the opposition had been completely annihilated, I just thought that I could help by doing what I had always done. Taking pictures.”

“Taking pictures?”

“Yes. I wanted to be there and record things. What had happened, what would happen next. When this will end” – and Louis’ heart clenches at the sheer faith with which Harry utters those four words – “I wanted to be able to say, I was there, and this is what I saw, and this is what it was like, and we should never forget.”

Louis closes his eyes. “I wasn’t there when the Elections happened. Nor for the aftermath. How… How was it like?”

“Confusing. Awful.” Harry laughs quietly. “Like a nightmare. Except I never woke up from it.”

“I know the feeling.”

“Sometimes,” Harry says, and his voice is so low Louis almost has trouble understanding what he’s saying, “sometimes I still think that none of this really happened. That I’ll wake up one morning, and won’t have to wonderif today is the day I’ll finally be sent to jail for something I haven’t even done just because the government has the power to do it. And, like, if I’ll be able to walk out of my flat without being afraid and won’t have to worry about my neighbour, who I know supplies food to some rebel groups.” He exhales shakily. “The thing is, I think about all this, about not being afraid of those things, but I also can’t remember what it was like not to be afraid of them. That’s the worst thing, I think. Not being able to remember.”

“Well, at least, if you get sent to jail now you’ll know what you did,” Louis says. It’s a feeble attempt at lightening the mood and it comes out as more gloomy than funny, but Harry seems to appreciate the effort. He gives Louis a small smile.

“I think I’m going to try sleeping now,” Harry says. He hesitates, then: “Can I?” he asks, gesturing towards Louis’ hand, and Louis gets it.

“Sure,” he replies.

Harry takes his hand and closes his eyes, curled on his side. Louis is still lying flat on the bed, staring at the ceiling. This, he thinks, the warmth of Harry’s hand in his, is about comfort. About wanting not to feel alone when you finally close your eyes after a horrific day, which is, somehow, not more or less horrific than any other day. Just one in a long line of awful days. It’s about the hope that still lives in your heart, that, when you wake up, the past few months – few years in Harry’s case – will only be a particularly strange and terrible nightmare. About knowing that this hope won't come true, yet not being able to completely suppress it and avoid the bitter taste of disappointment when you open your eyes in the morning and nothing has changed.

This is about comfort, and if it’s the only thing Louis can offer Harry, he gladly will.

Louis falls asleep to the memory of Harry kneeling in his ransacked flat, beautiful, like a painting you never knew could break your heart.

\---

The next morning, Louis wakes up to an empty bed again. Harry's making breakfast in the kitchen while Liam tells him that they didn’t make the news.

“So we’ll have to go bigger?” Louis asks and Liam nods. Which is fine, Louis guesses. They can choose another target that will help them gather more attention.

So they sit down at the table, and start plotting while Harry brings them breakfast.

When they go to bed that night, they don’t talk, but Harry still looks at Louis’ hand insistently enough for Louis to take the hint and press their palms together.

They fall asleep easily.

\--- 

Apparently, three times is enough for it to turn into a habit. For the next week, they settle into a routine. Louis usually wakes up alone and joins the boys in the living room, making plans or lounging. Harry spends most of his time in the kitchen.

At first, Louis was concerned that he felt obligated to do something for them, but Harry only replied that he liked it and it helped him process things better. Once in a while, Harry will come out of his self-proclaimed sanctuary and add his input to their planning but he mostly seems content to be left alone to do his own thing. Louis isn’t sure if it’s a personality trait or if he needs time for himself after his life has changed so drastically in so little time, but he certainly doesn’t want to interfere. At least, not during the days.

The nights are different. They find themselves alone in the same bed, unable to sleep and, somehow, sharing stories and questions before they get so exhausted they can barely talk anymore becomes the norm. They always end up falling asleep while holding hands, and Louis can never completely forget that Harry said that he came to New York for his boyfriend. Harry doesn’t ask about Louisand, while Louis doesn’t have much illusion left about himself and how the world views him, he’s glad Harry doesn’t assume.

It’s at nights that he learns the most about Harry. Sometimes they talk about personal stuff, the darkness making it easy to forget that they are spilling long held secrets to a near stranger. Sometimes they talk about the most random things.

Their conversations always leave Louis wanting more. He’s just not exactlysure what more entails.

\---

“Do you have any family left in England?”

“Yeah, my older sister, Gemma. And my mother." 

“Do you miss them?” 

“More than I can say.”

“Why didn’t you go back, then? When you still had time?”

“Because, I guess, it would have felt too much like fleeing.”

\---

“What about you?”

“Me?”

“Do you have any siblings?”

“Yeah, loads. Mostly sisters. And two little brothers.”

“Why did you move away then?”

“Some days were fine. There was always so much to do, so many things to help with, I can’t say that I was ever bored. But most of the time it felt like I was always battling to breathe. Like there was never enough air. Moving away seemed like a good way to deal with it.”

“Did it work?”

“Not like I expected. Being here, it’s a different kind of not being able to breathe. But, at least, there’s something I can do about it.”

\---

“Do you ever think about what you’ll do, when this ends? If it ends.”

“Take a month long holidays in the Bahamas, I think.”

“Why the Bahamas, Lou? Can’t you think about something less cliché?”

“The Bahamas have sand and like, turquoise waters. Good enough for me. And you? What would you do?”

“Go back to England maybe. I didn’t want to go back after my boyfriend left me. It would have been like admitting defeat? Like this whole moving away thing had been a terrible idea. So I stayed.But I’d like to go back. When this is over.”

“Will you still be taking pictures?”

“Yeah. I think so, yeah.”

\--- 

“Why photography, though?”

“I was good at it.”

“And that’s enough?”

“I guess so. Sometimes, you just know what you’re good at? I’m good at taking pictures. I wouldn’t say that it’s my destiny or that I was made for it, but it’s something I’m good at and that I can do. So I just did it.”

“What’s your favourite picture you’ve taken?”

“I’m not sure I can answer that.”

“Why not?”

“Because this… This war isn’t over yet. Ask me after.”

“You always seem so sure that there will be an after…”

“I have to, don’t I? You’re sure too, or you wouldn’t be doing this. You wouldn’t be here, fighting for an after to exist, if you didn’t believe in it. You could be safe in England, but you’re not and you’re fighting and you think there will be an after. That this has to end.”

“I guess I do.”

“So ask me after.”

“I will.” 

\---

Harry usually falls asleep before Louis does, letting the conversation die quietly, his hand blindly searching for Louis’. Louis stays awake for a bit longer, thinking about what they just said, about the tiny parts of Harry that are slowly being revealed to him. It’s not even been a full week yet, but Louis feels drawn to Harry in a way he has never felt before for anyone else. He’s not sure exactly why, if it’s the strange circumstances, their living arrangements, or the peace he seems to find when they fall asleep next to each other. He’s not sure it matters.

He thinks about the way Harry speaks of after, about his tone, raspy and low, and how he pronounces the word, about his utter certainty and faith that there will be an after and that Louis must believe in it too.It gives Louis something he hasn’t felt in a long time. Something akin to hope.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the next chapter, they blow up things.
> 
> [tumblr post here](http://pininglou.tumblr.com/post/124336660391/thanks-to-sunshiner-for-the-graph-3-title-a).


	3. 3.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The thing about hope is how easily it shatters."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, thanks to [Marianna](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sunshiner/pseuds/sunshiner) even though she decided we would never agree on commas (but I trust her) & [Jen](http://yslhoe.tumblr.com/), for reading and supporting me, always. Finally, thanks to Thea for anwering my questions about NY even though she isn't really concerned with H&L. 
> 
> Thanks to all the people who are reading this, left kudos, comments and/or subscribed to it. It actually means a lot when I'm staring at my ceiling and wondering how I'm gonna be able to finish this. (I def will though.)
> 
> You can always find me [here](http://pininglou.tumblr.com/)

3.

“We know who our enemies are. We know. “

Richard Siken, “Detail of the fire”, in _War of the foxes_.

 

The thing about hope is how easily it shatters.

\---

When Louis wakes up on Sunday morning Harry is still asleep next to him. Which is, well, unprecedented. Louis doesn’t know if he should wake him up or let him sleep. He just takes the scene in. Rays of sunshine are filtering through the curtains, illuminating the bedroom. Harry is sleeping, curled against his pillow, hand still resting between him and Louis, palm opened like he’s just waiting for Louis to take it in his again. Louis doesn’t. It doesn’t feel right, in the daylight, like this is something that only belongs to the darkness, when everything feels more open and fragile.

He just stays there, looking at Harry’s profile until Harry’s eyelids begin to flutter. Louis has seen Harry go to sleep every night, yet there’s something much more intimate in watching him wake up, sleep still smoothing the few lines on his face. It almost feels like a forbidden spectacle, something he shouldn’t be privy to. He can’t help himself, though. He keeps watching, committing to memory the way Harry frowns slightly and his jaw clenches, how his eyes look a bit glassy and confused until they land on Louis. When they do, the way he smiles is more blinding than any light in the room.

“Hi,” he says, voice still rough with sleep and lower than usual. “Time to get up?”

“Not really,” Louis answers. “It’s Sunday, the others are probably out running errands. Things are usually calmer on Sundays, especially in this neighbourhood. Not much chance of coming acrossa government agent.”

“So, what should we do?” Harry asks.

“Hmm, I have an idea if you’re up for it? We could grab a quick breakfast and go. There’s a place I’d like to show you.”

“Sure,” Harry says, sitting up. “Should I wear anything special?”

“Just put on some old clothes. Oh, and bring your camera if you want.”

Harry gets up and disappears in the bathroom, while Louis stays in bed a little longer. The sun is shining bright and everything is calm and quiet, like a reprieve, a temporary truce.

This, he decides, is going to be a good day.

\---

Louis brings them to a small playground he discovered a few weeks ago. He knows the way well enough to avoid the busiest streets, not that busy means much these days, when more than two persons out in the same street is what can be considered busy. Still, better avoid possible unpleasant encounters.

The playground is in a completely abandoned area of the city and offers the peace and intimacy that Louis sometimes needed when living with three other people became too much. He feels like Harry may need it too and, considering the grateful glance Harry shoots him, he was right. Louis brought a football with him and spends the first ten minutes they’re there trying to convince Harry to play with him.

“I’m really shit at football, Lou.”

“C’mon, indulge me, please. Thirty minutes and then you can go take as many pictures as you want.”

Harry shakes his head slightly but catches the ball Louis throws at him between his hands.

“Thirty minutes?” he says.

“Promise.”

They play for an hour.

Harry wasn’t being modest when he said that he wasn’t really good, but Louis couldn’t care less. He feels calm in a way that only comes with physical effort and the exhaustion it brings, different from the day-to-day weariness of nights filled with too little sleep and days filled with too much anxiety and fear. For a while, Louis lets go of everything that’s happened this week. The successful yet inconclusive attack on the subway. Meeting Harry. The vision of a broken flat. The meticulous planning of their next attack. The long hours spent speaking with Harry, digging up memories sometimes best forgotten and questions he has no answer to.

Harry isn’t good and it doesn’t matter because it’s fun. At some point, he throws the ball in a grove of treesand they spend ten minutes trying to get it out without hurting themselves. They don’t really succeed and end up with scratches and scorched arms, but they’re laughing. It reminds Louis of childhood summer days and easier times. Harry looks carefree, his hair a mess of loose strands trying to get out of his bun, and so young. It makes something deep within Louis ache for different circumstances, but there’s nothing he can do to change what is and he quells the thought as harshly as he can. He lets himself enjoy this, revel in the moment while he can, because he knows too well that it won’t last and that they’ll have to go back to reality soon. Harry’s bright laughter kind of helps.

Which is why what happens next is somewhat unexpected.

Louis is lying on a patch of grass, eyes closed, stretching his tired limbs and listening to the audible click of Harry’s camera, trying to guess what Harry’s photographing – the bright blue of the sky between tree branches, the geometric shape of a building in the distance, something only his eye can see – when he hears a muffled noise that sounds suspiciously like a sob and realises that he hasn’t actually heard a _click_ in a while.

He opens his eyes to Harry sitting on a bench, head bent low, holding his camera in his lap. There’s another sob-like sound and Harry’s head bobs a little. This is definitely what it looks like. Louis considers ignoring it, leaving Harry to himself and to whatever he needs to let out, but he has never been really good at ignoring this kind of stuff. Years spent with younger siblings for whom the simplest thing can sometimes mean the end of the world has taught him better, and there’s nothing simple about their situation.

He gets up and goes to sit next to Harry, laying a tentative hand on his back. He’s not sure, exactly, what are the physical boundaries between them. Although those have been blurred from the beginning, he doesn’t want to presume. But Harry’s body sags against his as soon as Louis’ hand touches him, his head finding the crook of Louis’ neck, and Louis drapes an arm around Harry’s shoulders in consolation.

He doesn’t know how long they stay like this. He lets Harry cry in his embrace, offering as much physical comfort as he can. At some point, Harry grips Louis’ free hand in his, crushing it, and Louis lets him, barely wincing at the pain.The sobs intensify before becoming quieter and fewer and finally stopping completely. They stay quiet a bit longer, two young men on a bench in an abandoned playground, the sun high in the sky.

“I’m sorry,” Harry says shakily, breaking the silence.

And, right. Louis can do this. He has held six year old girls in his arms and reassured them when they felt like their whole world was falling apart. He has spent countless nights listening to his mother during her divorce, too young to know how to fix this but old enough to feel like he at least ought to try.He can absolutely do this. He is good at this. Knows how to be strong for other people when he forgets to be strong for himself. There’s something incredibly easy in it, in forgetting about yourself and your own hardships, and letting the sorrows and worries of others wash over you. It’s about sacrifices, and Louis is good at sacrifices. That’s why he’s here after all.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks softly.

“It’s stupid,” Harry sniffs quietly, head still resting against Louis’ neck. Louis slowly frees his hand from Harry’s grip and cups Harry’s jaw, forcing him to look at Louis. He wants his undivided attention. People who have been crying their hearts out shouldn’t look pretty but, somehow, Harry does, nose and cheeks pink, the streams from the tears on his face forming strangely artistic patterns. Louis thinks fleetingly that he wants to taste them.

“I don’t really care if it’s stupid,” Louis says. “I still want to know.”

“It’s just. This week has been a lot, you know?” he answers. “Do you remember how I told you that I can never really forget about the fear?”

Louis nods. It was one of their very first conversations and he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to forget it.

“Well, I was taking pictures, and you were just lying on the ground, and it’s such a beautiful day that for a moment I forgot. About, like, everything else. And then I looked at you again and I realized that I’ve only known you for a week and that there’s nothing about this that is normal, even my usual fucked up kind of normal, and it all just became too much. I’m going to be fine, but right now, it’s all too much.”

Louis doesn’t know what to say. There’s nothing he can do. He can’t give Harry his flat back and he can’t give him his life back. He can’t even blame himself for it, because Harry gave up on those when he decided not to work with the government. Or maybe it was before, when he decided to stay here after the Elections. What he says is:

“Are you sure it’s not because you’re really bad at football?”

Harry laughs, softly, and it feels a bit strained but Louis counts it as a victory.

“I’m pretty sure I’ve made my peace with that a long time ago.”

“It _is_ a beautiful day, though.”

“It really is.”

“What would you do, if it was a normal Sunday? What did you usually do?”

“Not much,” Harry answers. “Going through the shop’s books. Boring, administrative stuff I don’t have the strength to do during the week.”

“Well, today is definitely an improvement then,” Louis says decisively, and Harry offers him a small smile. “Do you… Do you want to go back?”

“No. I’d like to stay here a bit longer, if it’s alright with you.”

It is.

\---

They are all in the living room, in front of the fire. Harry and Louis came back from the playground a few hours ago and waited for the others to get there. Louis wanted to do something to cheer Harry up and thought that some bonding in front of a fire couldn’t go wrong. Liam has been sending him insistent looks since he came back and Louis knows he should just talk to him, but he also feels like he deserves a rest. They all do. So he tries to convey “leave it the fuck alone for tonight” through a glance in the gentlest way possible and hopes that Liam will get it.

They’re sitting in a circle, Harry sprawled next to Louis, his hair brushing Louis’ thigh. Louis lets his fingers run through it, thinking that the few physical barriers remaining between them were abolished when Harry cried in his arms. Harry doesn’t recoil and it’s enough for Louis to keep going. Harry seems to actually crave the physical contact and that’s more than fine with Louis, he has always been a tactile person and relishes the feeling of Harry’s proximity. Niall is sitting next to them, his guitar in his lap, absently strumming it. Zayn is on his back, browsing through one of this books, and Liam is watching the flames of the fire, occasionally sipping his beer.

It’s nice. Peaceful. Looking at them, Louis feels a sense of belonging he has never felt anywhere else. It should be strange that sitting in a flat that isn’t really his, thousands of miles away from England, fighting for a war that wasn’t his until he decided to make it so, with four boys he has known for less than a year, would feel like home, yet it isn’t. It feels right, or as close to it as anything can be.

“How did you all come to be here?” Harry asks, breaking the silence. “I mean, you all know my story but I don’t know yours,” he adds.

“We were put together,” Liam offers, always ready to take the lead. “Obviously people are concerned back home, and something like a year ago the Ministry for Foreign Affairs did this campaign to recruit volunteers. There were posters in the streets, inviting people who wanted to help to apply for an interview. And here we are, I guess. We’re supposed to make contact with local rebel groups. Which is,"  he snorts, "harder than it seems.”

“So you’re not the only ones?”

“I don’t know,” Liam answers. “Maybe we are, maybe we aren’t. It doesn’t change anything to our mission.”

“Is that why you volunteered? Because you wanted to help?”

Louis hears Niall huff.

“Well, lads, if we’re gonna breach those kind of topics I’m gonna need something stronger than beer. No offence intended to my ancestors.”

He gets up and disappears in the kitchen, coming back with glasses and a bottle of whiskey.

“Right,” he says. “Let’s all have at least a good glass of whiskey before continuing this.”

They all drink slowly, Liam frowning in his glass.

“I can’t speak for the other boys,” Liam says, and he does sound slightly tipsy and more open than he usually is, “but I was a fireman back home. And there was an accident a few years ago. Someone I couldn’t save. It wasn’t my fault, but I still felt guilty, you know?” He stops for a while. When it seems like he won’t be able to go back to his story without a bit of prompting Harry says:

“I think we all kind of know how this feels like. We all have this moment in our lives where we feel like we should have done more. Be more, maybe.”

It’s such an innocuous thing to say, yet Louis is amazed at how effective it seems to be, how well it works on Liam.

“Yeah, so. After it happened, I felt guilty for the longest time. And then I saw the posters asking for people to join and I thought, why not fight a war I know I can win this time, right? Not that I know we’re going to win it but. It seems fairer somehow. To fight a war where we know who the enemies are.”

And that’s the gist of it. They are not here because they want to fight this war, specifically, but because it’s the only war they can fight right now. Louis thinks about Niall, who barely speaks about Ireland, about Zayn, and his Palestinian flag tattoo he thinks no one knows about, not even Louis. He thinks about his teenage self, always incredibly alone even in the middle of parties, surrounded by people like Calvin or Oli who swore they were brothers to him yet would have abandoned him in the blink of an eye if they had known that Louis would gladly get down on his knees for Matt Harris and he thinks, we are all here to fight a war we believe we can win, this time.

They all “hmm” in agreement, and the conversation dies for a little while. There’s a tension in the room that Louis wants to diffuse. Something heavy that’s settled on them, which was not how he wanted this evening to go.

“So Niall,” he says. “Play something for us? Or we’re going to start thinking that your guitar is only a nice accessory!”

It’s a bit unfair, since Louis well knows that Niall can play the guitar, but it works.

“Right boys,” Niall says. “What do you want me to play? Wait, no. I have the perfect song.”

He starts playing and Louis recognizes the song. It’s a song about lovers, and dark street corners, and not being able to love who you want. The warmth coming from the fire is soothing and Harry’s head is still resting against his thigh. Zayn’s abandoned his book to look at Niall and Liam is smiling. Niall is singing, softly, softly about the dark end of the streets, and Louis joins him, low and a bit insecure. Harry starts humming the melody too. Soon enough, they’re all singing the song and it’s rawer than the original version and not put together at all, but it works.

There’s something more to what they’re doing here than just fighting a war they think they can win, Louis realizes. Looking at all of them, looking at Harry who shouldn’t have fitted so quickly and easily with them yet does, he thinks that it’s about companionship.

If they have to fight, at least, this time, they’re not alone.

 _At the dark end of the street_  
_That's where we always meet_  
_Hiding in shadows where we don't belong_  
_Living in darkness, to right our wrong_

\---

Later, in bed, still tipsy and warm from the fire, Louis says:

“I’m sorry for earlier today. I wish I could have been better at, like, comforting you.”

“It’s ok,” Harry answers. “I think I needed that. To cry for a bit. I’m sorry if I was too invasive with my questions, I don’t want you guys to feel like I’m prying. ‘M just curious, I guess.”

“It’s fine,” he whispers. Then laughs, “I don’t even know why we are apologizing to each other.”

Harry doesn’t respond. He snuggles closer to Louis and it’s not like anything they’ve done before – holding hands. It’s more intimate, and Harry’s head is almost resting on Louis’ chest and he feels like he can barely breathe.

“Is this ok?” Harry asks, because of course he would.

Louis answers: “yes” because he’s not sure what else he could say. He doesn’t know how to deny Harry. He loves all of his boys, would go to war for Liam, Zayn and Niall and, in a way, he already does, but there’s something in Harry that gets past all his defences, that leaves him confused and breathless, like he’s been under water for too long and Harry is a breath of air he can’t help but take.

Right now, it feels like Louis can barely remember that they’ve known each other for less than a week. So he lets Harry go to sleep against him, and tries to forget about everything. If he tries hard enough, maybe they’ll be able to stay there, in this flat, the five of them, sheltered from the world and what is going on out there. If he tries hard enough, maybe tomorrow will never come, everything will stay calm and forgiven, like a summer night that never ends.

It’s a feeble dream, he knows.

He will have to wake up. Harry will be there or already in the kitchen, getting breakfast ready. They will have to make a final decision about their plans and hope they didn’t fuck it all up. Liam will go out and play the unremarkable government employee for the day. Louis will stay in the flat, hoping for the best. Multiple things will distract him, but none of them will quench the ever-present anxiety in his veins. He’ll pretend that they do. And then, Liam will come home; they’ll have dinner and will go to bed. Maybe, before, they’ll sit in front of the fire. Niall will play his guitar and Zayn will talk about the books he’s reading and Harry will take pictures.

Maybe none of this will happen. The only sure thing is, he will have to wake up.

He likes to think that it will not be in vain.

\---

 The next day, Liam corners him before going to work.

“We have to finalize our plans,” he says.

“We mostly have,” Louis answers. “The Met gala, we’re blowing up the abandoned building next to it. Scare them but no victims. Impossible for us not to make the news. Isn’t that right?”

“It is,” Liam exhales quietly. “I just want to be sure that it’ll work this time. We need to make contact with the main group, Louis. We’ve been here long enough.”

Louis huffs.

“I know,” Liam continues. “I know what you think, but we have a mission and we need to complete it. Our goal was to make contact with a larger NY based resistance group. Not to take down the government by ourselves.”

“And what about Harry?” Louis asks.

“Harry?”

“Yeah. He’s not part of the plan, is he? What if they decide to put him out there again. I know what our mission is, Liam. I’m just not sure it applies to the circumstances anymore.”

“They wouldn’t do that. They have the exact same reasons to keep Harry with them that we had. I know you’re not the most trustful of people, but please trust me on this? We need to do it.”

“Fine,” Louis says. And it’s not fine, really, but it was inevitable that the world should shatter the small bubble they had built for themselves.

“The Met gala, in a month?” Liam asks, in confirmation.

“Yeah. The whole government will be there and it’s the best way to attract attention, for sure.”

Liam nods and gets out of the flat, ready to go to work. Louis feels sick. He sees Harry looking at him worryingly from the kitchen, and nods at him slightly, trying to convey that everything is fine. Louis hasn’t forgotten their mission, he hasn’t. He’s just afraid of what the changes will entail. Here, between the five of them, he has power to decide. To choose what they should and shouldn’t do. What’s acceptable and what isn’t. Joining a larger group means losing that power to decide, and that’s not something that sits well with him.

This isn’t his war, Louis tries to convince himself. It isn’t. He may have chosen the battlefield, but how to win isn’t his choice to make.

\---

 The month before the gala passes quickly. Harry’s things find their way into Louis’ room until Louis forgets that it was once only his and starts thinking about it as theirs. Where Louis’ space was sparse and barely filled, Harry brings clothes and books that begin piling up. Sometimes, Louis asks him about them, curious to learn about what Harry is reading.

“This one is form a French writer, his name is Perec. His parents were taken away during World War II and he was hidden so that the same thing wouldn’t happen to him. It’s quite strange. One part is autobiographical, and the other part is a story about athletes on an island who just compete all day long. At first, the way they live seems ideal but, the longer you read, the more you understand that the island is actually a completely fucked up place.”

“Why is that?”

“People there have no hope. They just have to keep competing again and again in case they win, but they can’t win unless the people in power decide to let them, which they never do. And there’s this sentence that says that the athlete needs to understand that nothing better will ever come for him. That’s what his life is gonna be like, waking up, training, going to sleep. Being hungry and tired, all the time. He needs to understand that there is no hope at all.”

Harry stays quiet for a while before resuming his story:

“What it says, I guess, is that in some cases there’s nothing left for you to imagine, because you don’t even know that imagining things is something you can do. You wake up, train, go to sleep. There’s no world out there. Even if there is, you don’t know about it. But, like, that’s not us. We know there’s something out there, something waiting for us. We know that this isn’t the end, or everything we will always be able to imagine. We still have this. Imagination.”

“So,” Louis asks. “What do you imagine?”

“It depends,” Harry answers slowly. “Sometimes, I guess, I imagine what everybody else does. Having a husband, a nice house, kids I’m taking care of. Hopefully, my pictures are selling enough that I can make a living off it.”

“And at other times?”

“At other times, I can’t imagine anything. I’m the athlete and this is the island, and there’s just. Nothing. I wake up, I train, I go to sleep. There’s no future in front of me, because they robbed it from me. There’s no husband, or kids, or like, a nice job. There’s just an endless vision of days and hours all blending together and it never ever stops.”

“So what wins? The days where you can imagine, or the days where you can’t?”

“Right now,” Harry answers, “It’s the days I can’t.”

\---

“So,” Harry repeats one more time, “Liam will be there as a government employee because he somehow managed to get his hands on some tickets, you and I will blow up our target next to the Met, and Niall will be in the truck, supervising the whole thing and waiting for us, while Zayn will stay here in case we fuck up and all get arrested.”

“That’s it,” Louis says, adjusting Harry’s tie.

“And we are getting dressed, why?”

“Because we need a cover in case something goes wrong. C’mon, we’ve been over this countless of times.”

“I know. I just want to be sure I’m not going to mess it all up.”

“You won’t,” Louis reassures him. “It’s honestly the most simple plan ever. Ok, let me look at you.”

Harry takes a step back so Louis can fully take him is. His hair is held in his usual bun and he’s wearing a simple but effective suit, all sharp lines and dark fabric.

“I guess it’ll do,” Louis laughs. “You could definitely pass for a government agent if needs be.”

“Good,” Harry answers noncommittally.

“Are we ready then?” Louis asks and they both know that’s not really what Louis is asking.

“We are,” Harry answers. “I am.”

Louis nods and is on his way out of the room when Harry stops him:

“Wait!”

Louis turns around, and doesn’t even have the time to reply anything before Harry’s arms engulf him, holding him close.

“It’s gonna be fine,” Harry whispers into his ear, breath hot against his neck, and Louis feels like he can barely breathe, distracted by the feeling of Harry’s body against his. He inhales Harry’s smell sharply, takes in the broadness of his chest, the lines of his body, and answers: “Yes. Yes it is.”

He disentangles himself from Harry and says: “Let’s go, then.”

So they do.

\---

“I’m almost done,” Louis whispers. He can hear the music coming from the building where the gala is held and tries not to get distracted by it. He wonders what it must be like, not to be fearful of things. To just be another government agent at a party, enjoying yourself. Maybe that’s a lie too, he thinks, and no one there is really enjoying themselves. Still, it’s easier to believe that most of them do. That their enemy has a definite form and shape.

Louis’ hands are shaking – he really isn’t good with explosive charges – but he just has to set the timer, and he’ll be done. It only takes a few seconds.

“Ok,” he says, “let’s get the fuck out of there.”

Harry, who was watching the entrance of the abandoned building, turns to face him. He grabs Louis’ hand and they start running. It’s a strange re-enactment of what happened a bit more than a month ago, when they first met. Now he’s the one following Harry and it’s somehow completely right. They keep running toward the exit, adrenaline buzzing through their veins and, at some point, Harry starts laughing a bit hysterically and Louis is laughing too and god. This is fine. They are going to be fine.

They end up plastered against a wall, waiting for the bomb to go off before they can reunite with the other boys. They’re still breathing loudly, hands entwined, and Harry’s other hand finds its way against Louis’ hip.

Louis isn’t blind, nor is he oblivious. He knows he’s attracted to Harry in a way he can barely explain to himself. Every part of Harry is appealing to him, from the loose strands of his bun, the pale green of his eyes, his smile, to the way his voice sounds in the early morning, when there’s no one but Louis to hear him. Maybe, especially, the way he sounds when only Louis can hear him. Like it’s something that belongs to Louis and Louis only.

He also knows, he thinks, that Harry is attracted to him. What they do – holding each other’s hands, cuddling until they are finally able to go to sleep – it’s not exactly platonic. But it’s also never been acknowledged as more than what it is. Comfort. Reassurance. Understanding.

So while Harry’s hand in his, Harry’s breath against him, Harry’s lips inches away from his neck are not exactly new, nor exactly unexpected, it’s still enough to throw Louis off balance.

Before he has time to do anything about it, he hears the explosion begin. That’s their cue.

“Come on,” Louis says, “Time to go back to Niall.”

Harry only nods.

They all end up clustered in the tiny truck, Harry and Louis pressed against each other, Liam laughing in relief and while Niall drives.

If Louis were in a novel, he would say that the moment between him and Harry has passed, but the thing is, every moment between them is charged and heavy and none of what they do seems to shatter the tension. It’s like walking on an invisible wire, suspended mid air: one bad movement and it could all go wrong. They don’t have the luxury for it to go wrong.

So he stays there, back resting against the wall of the truck, eyes closed, trying not to think about what the next day will bring.

When he goes to sleep, that night, he swears he can still hear the sound of the explosion in the distance.

He wakes up to learn that, this time, they made the news.

\---

(The thing about hope is how easily it shatters.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find the song [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HC3AXQ8dPJM)
> 
> & the book I'm talking about is called W and the Memory of Childhood. it's a really powerful read if you're interested, I highly recommend it. 
> 
> So, in the next chapter, Louis and Liam have a huge fight. (This is action-packed I swear).


	4. 4.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Losing hope doesn’t happen overnight."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [Marianna](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sunshiner/pseuds/sunshiner) for proofreading this despite her hangover & [Jen](http://yslhoe.tumblr.com/) for the cheering. 
> 
> 1d was apparently determined not to let me write this week but whatever I refuse to cooperate. 
> 
> & thanks to everybody reading this.

“All wars are the same war.”

Richard Siken, “War of the foxes”, in _War of the foxes_.

 

_Interlude_

_Losing hope doesn’t happen overnight. Of course, it’s easier to pinpoint a main event, the big one. The one you’ll be able to refer to later and say: “this was the moment when everything changed.” People like stories. They like to know that things have a beginning, middle and an end, all clearly ordered in a ruthless narrative._

_Reality isn’t that neat._

_Later, sure, you’ll rearrange your own story for it to make sense to yourself and to others. You’ll point at moments and say: “there.” There’ll be a sense of satisfaction in doing that, in being able to order chaos, to the point that some even write it down_. I was born, I lived, I died. This is how it all happened. Here is a beautiful arrangement of facts and look at how they all fit together seamlessly. _Causality and effect, causes and consequences._

_It’s not how it really happens._

_Most of the times, you don’t actually see things happen. This is true of life and History. You go on about your life, and things happen to you, or you happen to them and you don’t think about them much, because you have so many other things going on. And one day you wake up – or at least it feels like waking up, like you’ve only been half awake for the longest time and clarity just came to you – and you wonder, how did it come to this? How did I get there?_

_That’s when you start trying to pinpoint moments. That’s when you start trying to explain things._

_Beginning, middle, end._

_The real question is: how does it happen then. It happens like grass grows. You don’t see it, you don’t pay attention to it, until one day it’s spring and the grass is high and tickling your ankles while you’re walking barefoot and you wonder – how did I not see it grow._

_One day, you decide to go to war._

_It doesn’t seem really different from any other day because there are a multitude of things that made you take that decision. Not to say that the decision is effortless_ _,_ _but it makes sense, in the broader context. It doesn’t really stand out of the ordinary. You feel like you’ve been battling most of your life anyway, so you tell yourself, why not. Why not fight a real war. (You know that thinking in terms of real wars and false wars is a fallacy, but you do it anyway.)_

 _Let’s say it’s a nice spring morning. You’re tired_ _,_ _but then you always feel tired. It’s like you’ve been tired for years. You see a poster, brand new and shining. You’re not usually one to believe in those things, fighting for your country, honour, selflessly sacrificing yourself, but at this point of your life it makes sense. Maybe that’s what you should think about. How, one day, going to war started making sense. You don’t, though. You see the poster and you think, why not. What do I have to lose?_

_This isn’t when you lose hope, because none of this would make sense if you hadn’t already started losing hope. It’s just one of those moments that will, later, stand out more clearly. You’ll go back to it and wonder, was this it?_

_It’s not._

_Here’s the truth: years later, you’ll rearrange things into a neat story. And for the story to make sense, to be captivating, to keep people entertained, for them to listen to you and understand what you went through, you’ll utter those words “this was the moment I thought I lost hope.” You thought. You didn’t._

_Here’s the truth: you never really lost hope. At times, it felt like you did. Like nothing good would ever come to you again, like you had, somehow, managed to burn the allotment of good things that had been given to you in the beginning._

_You didn’t._

_That’s why, one night, when you’re thinking about going back in time and not taking_ _the hand of the boy you're in love with_ _to save him_ _,_ _you instead end up apologizing to him and cradling him in your arms. For the longest time, you’ll think of that moment as the breaking point._

_Little did you know that it was the start._

\---

The morning after the attack, Louis wakes up from a nightmare, gasping for air, barely able to breathe. He vaguely hears Harry next to him asking, _are you okay, are you okay, Louis are you okay_ , but he can’t answer. The remnants of the nightmare are still clogging his mind, a voice talking to him about defining moments and narratives, and his younger self looking at a poster and thinking “I’m going to apply”, and for a moment it’s all too much.

“Please, Harry, please leave me alone,” he says. He doesn’t mean it in a bad way, he just needs for things to be quiet for a few seconds so he can readjust to reality, but he’s still conscious enough to see the hurt passing on Harry’s face when he murmurs “fine” and gets out of the bedroom.

Louis will apologize later but, right now, he needs to breathe.

He closes his eyes and inhales deeply, in and out, letting his body and mind calm down. None of his nightmares have been this bad since he started sleeping next to Harry, and he hopes that it’s only the aftermath of the attack getting at him. He’s not really good at this. He’s not good at handling explosive charges and at overthrowing governments. He wonders why he ever thought he would be. What kind of desperation, one day, drove him to think that this could be a good idea.

He gets up and avoids the living room as discreetly as he can to go find Harry in the kitchen. He can sense that Harry hears him enter, but he doesn’t turn around to greet him like he usually does. Right, Louis thinks. Fair enough.

“I’m really sorry,” he says. “I woke up from a bad dream and needed to be alone to get my wits back together. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Harry’s body sags against the kitchen counter, in what Louis can only hope is relief. He turns around, looking at Louis and says:

“I’m sorry I overreacted.”

“It’s fine,” Louis answers.

Louis thinks they’re going to leave it at that, but Harry starts speaking again:

“I know it’s not been that long, and that I kind of barged into your lives, but I like you. Like, I hope we’re actually friends?”

Louis feels his heart break a little and says:

“Yeah, of course we are.”

“Right,” Harry frowns. “So we’re friends and I guess this means a lot to me. I know we haven’t talked about it much, but I guess I was really lonely before I met you guys? Like, I had my customers and everything but there wasn’t much else. So, when you woke up this morning and couldn’t even look at me and, when you did, you looked like I was scaring you, it was really hurtful. I know that’s not how you meant it,” he adds hurryingly, “but that’s how it felt at the time.”

He’s resting against the stove, the early light of the morning filtering through the window and illuminating the room. The flat is mostly silent, except for Niall and Liam moving in the living room, and flickering rays of sunshine are dancing across Harry’s face.

He’s kind of something else, Louis thinks.

“I’m glad you’re here with us,” is what he says.

There are other things he could say. _I’m glad you’re the one lying next to me at night, when we’ve stopped speaking but still can’t sleep, when the only thing that can make me bring myself to close my eyes and go to sleep is knowing that you’ll be there. It makes the idea of waking up in this world feel a little less scary. I thought I wasn’t alone before, because I had the boys_ _,_ _but now that I know you it feels like everything that came before you was black and white where you are bright colours and soft light_ _._ _If you told me right now that you couldn’t do this anymore_ , _that you wanted to give up, I’m not sure I’d be able to continue without you._

Those are scary thoughts, but Louis has never really been one to lie to himself. He lets them wash over him, settle in his veins like a truth you can’t deny and thinks, right. He’s not exactly sure what they mean but he won’t shield away from them.

“Come on,” he says. “Let’s go have breakfast.”

When they enter the living room, Liam tells them:

“Well boys. We made the news this time.”

It all goes downhill from there.

\---

Now that they’ve made the news, that what they have done is out there, for the entire country to see and comment on – at least those who are still able to watch the news – the only thing they can do is to see if a larger group is going to take the bait and reach out for them. Zayn uses his connections with the black market to spread the word that a group originating from London was responsible for the attack, and the waiting begins.

The days pass in a blur of long and restless hours that somehow all merge together. Liam continues to go to work, Louis and the rest of them make vague plans about what they should do in case they weren’t successful yet again, but those are mostly random ideas thrown here and there.

Louis and Harry go back to the playground to escape the suffocating atmosphere that seems to have invaded the flat. None of them are really good at waiting. That’s not why they were chosen for this mission.

A hot summer afternoon finds them lounging at the park. They tried playing football for a bit, but the heat is unbearable and they gave up.Instead, theysettled under a cherry tree, basking in the shade it offers. The cherry blossoms are long gone, but Louis likes to imagine that he can still smell their faded perfume, something sweet and tender, like hope. Harry’s head is resting on Louis’ belly, Louis playing idly with his hair. It has become kind of a habit.

They speak softly, like they’re afraid someone might hear them. They’re so close, so close and, under the warm summer sun, Louis feels like something is changing between them. Something that has remained unspoken, unacknowledged until now. The idea that, maybe, they could try. That it wouldn’t be so much of a mad idea.

It’s in the way Harry is looking at him and the way he’s looking at Harry. Like they could, somehow, save each other.

Nothing happens, though. It remains between them, lingering, like the airiest summer breeze. Something they don’t dare try to reach for in case it vanishes. Tonight maybe, Louis thinks. Things are always easier between them at night.

They stay there, unmoving, as recluse from the world as one can be.

Louis closes his eyes.

Tonight, maybe.

\---

“They made contact with us.”

It feels like a cold shower. Louis is still reeling from the afternoon with Harry, from the thought of where this might go if he doesn’t fuck it up, the future appearing not bright, not exactly, but at least bearable, when Liam’s announcement shatters it all. And he shouldn’t be surprised, really, because that was the goal of the attack and it means they’ve succeeded, but he can’t help the feeling of dread that settles back in his stomach, as if it had never left.

“Who are “they”, precisely?” he asks. His voice sounds distant and coming from far away even for him.

“Well, they didn’t give us any names, of course, but they want to set up a meeting next week, so we can see if our interests are… mutual enough for us to come to an understanding.”

“Liam…”

“We were only waiting for you guys to come back so we can all vote on this and send the word back to our intermediary that we’re okay with an arranged meeting.” Liam’s tone is short and forceful, like he knows that Louis is about to protest and he’s trying to keep the discussion quick and to the point.

Louis should say yes. He should say that it’s okay, that he’s on board with it because, after all, it was their mission to make contact with a local group, but what comes out of his mouth is:

“This is a bad idea.”

Liam lets out an exasperated sigh.

“I thought we'd been through this already? It’s what we’re supposed to do, Louis. That’s our goal.”

“I know that,” Louis replies. “I still think it’s a bad idea.”

“If you can give me one good reason I’m willing to listen.”

“I…”

And the thing is, he can’t. He can’t give Liam a good reason, other than a gut instinct that this is wrong, that it’s all wrong. That there is a way of doing things and, if they join another group, they won’t be able to do them their way anymore. They are treading a dangerous line, Louis knows. He’s not like Zayn or Harry, he hasn’t read books about morality and ethics, but he isn’t stupid enough to ignore that, in times like these, there are lines you can cross and still be yourself, come out unscathed, and lines you can’t. Joining another group isn’t crossing a line, but it’s letting themselves be at the mercy of people who will ask this from them.He doesn’t have the time to formulate all those thoughts, to put them in order, because Liam is already saying:

“That’s what I thought. Listen, you know I trust you and your instincts, but I’m asking you to trust me on this. There’s no other way, Louis.”

And that’s a lie, of course. There are always other ways. Nothing is ever settled in stone and, if Louis could recover enough from the shock and the twirling thoughts in his mind, he would tell Liam this, but he can’t.

“This is a bad idea,” he repeats dumbly.

“It’s done,” Liam replies.

Louis wants to scream. He doesn’t. Instead, he flees.

\---

Harry comes find him while he’s hiding on the rooftop. The sun is setting down, turning the sky into shades of gold and purple. It’s a beautiful sunset. It feels like a farewell.

“Are you okay?” Harry asks, sitting down next to him. “I’m sorry,” he adds immediately. “You obviously aren’t, but I…”

Louis shrugs. There is no point in telling Harry that he isn’t fine, because they both know this. Harry isn’t fine either. None of them are. The thing is, if he started talking and saying, no, I’m not fine, he isn’t sure where he would begin. Where fine started to become not fine and turned into going to war and ended up like this. Sitting on a rooftop in a foreign city, no matter how hard he tried to make it his, thinking that everything is about to change yet again and feeling sick at the idea that those changes are for the worst. Maybe he’s overreacting – it wouldn’t be the first time. Maybe nothing bad will come out of them joining another group.

Louis is self-conscious enough to know that he has issues, and that they are an important part of what led him here and why he’s so reluctant to let go of the world they have created for themselves. That doesn’t mean he has to like it.

“So, what are you gonna do?” Harry asks.

“Follow Liam’s lead, I guess. There’s nothing else to do.”

Harry stays silent, for a few minutes, before saying:

“You know, if you wanted to like… Stop. Or just not do it, I would support you. I’ll stay with you, whatever you choose.”

Louis’ heart breaks a little.

“Like. I love the guys, I really do. And yeah, there’s a reason why I stayed here after the Elections and why I didn’t want to work for the government. But things are so different now, and you’re the most important person in my life,” he chuckles. “I’m not saying this well, sorry. What I mean is. I’m with you. First and foremost. For me, we’re in this together. And if you don’t want to be in this anymore, then neither do I.”

Louis’ heart breaks a bit more.

“Do you remember the morning after the attack? When I had a nightmare and you were kind of mad at me?"

“Yeah, I do.”

“I remember you, standing in the kitchen. And even though I’d just had a really shitty night and I had hurt you, the morning was so bright and the light was so soft and I remember thinking, if he told me that he couldn't do this anymore, I’d probably follow him.”

Harry doesn’t reply for a long time. Then:

“You never told me, you know. What this nightmare was about. What was so awful that you couldn’t even look at me.”

“It was… strange. But then, I guess, most nightmares are. I was in a room, a really white, really blank room, and it was closed but there were no walls around me. I just knew I couldn’t escape, that there was no way out. And there was like, this voice? Giving me a history or philosophy lesson, I don’t really know. Then I remember the feeling of grass on my anklesand being in the street and seeing the poster asking for volunteers last year, and I just woke up. It doesn’t sound really scary, put like that.”

“No, I guess nightmares never do when you put them in words. It’s the way they make you feel that’s scary.”

“Right. I never really told you why I decided to come here, did I?”

“No,” Harry replies. “No, you didn’t.”

“I didn’t have the easiest coming out,” Louis says. “I mean, it was fine.Like, my family was absolutely fine with it and so was I, I’ve never really been bothered about it, you know. It is what it is. But Doncaster is a rather small town and like, not the most open-minded one, and I knew what it would entail to come out there. So I never really did, but I never really lied either. I’d tell the truth to people who asked.”

“Is that why you have a triangle tattoo on your ankle?”

“Yeah, it is. The thing is, it’s not about the people who asked. It’s about those who didn’t. Not because they didn’t know, I’m pretty sure they did, but as long as they didn’t have like, a confirmation from me, they could ignore it. They could still like me.”

“They sound really shitty.”

Louis laughs.

“Yeah. Yeah, they were. So Doncaster was a lost battle you know? Like I wouldn’t have been able to win, no matter what I did,” he smiles. “I’m not really good at not winning. Anyway, I guess it’s something that’s weighted on me for a long time. The idea that I needed to win, somehow. And when I saw those posters, I thought, why not? Why not fight a real war? So that’s why I’m here I guess.”

“Because you want to win?”

“Because I want to win.”

“But not at whatever price?”

“No. It was never supposed to be like that. Which, I guess, was stupid of me, but I don’t know. I hadn’t imagined that.”

By that he means the sleepless nights and the constant fear, the overwhelming exhaustion. By that he also means Harry. He had never imagined Harry.

Yet here he is.

“So,” Harry says. “We’re not running away and becoming fugitives who live on cheap motel food and whiskey?”

“No,” Louis laughs. “I guess, we’re not.”

Harry grabs his hand and forces Louis to look at him.

“I would, you know. Become a fugitive with you.”

Louis smiles at him and the only thing he can say is: “I’m glad.”

He is.

\---

 

They go back downstairs. Louis doesn’t apologize to Liam, but nods at him in what feels like capitulation.

He still thinks it’s a bad idea.

He thinks it’s okay, as long as Harry is with him.

\---

 

They meet with the members of the group in an abandoned restaurant at midnight. It’s a bit overdramatic, even for Louis.

Still. The five of them are nestled on a bench, facing their future. There are two women in front of them, as ordinary looking as it can get. Louis shouldn’t be surprised, he didn’t actually expect for them to be wearing some kind of distinctive sign or for their allegiance to be somehow visible, yet he is, a bit. Or maybe unsettled is a better word. He wonders if he’s ever walked past them one of the rare times he ventured out in busy areas during the day. If he’s ever walked past other people, just as inconspicuous looking as they are, never knowing that they had the same enemy.

“So you’re from England?” one of the women says. They didn’t bother introducing themselves.

“We are,” Liam answers. “We’ve been detached by the British government to come here and make contact with a local resistance group by any means possible.”

“Do you have anything to back up your story?”

“We do,” Liam says, offering her a piece of paper. Louis doesn’t know what’s written on it, nor does he care. It’s like watching a movie. You’re removedfrom the characters yet feel for them, want to yell at them, tell them to do better. Louis never thought he would be both a spectator and a character in the movie. In his own life.

The two women examine the papers Liam handed them before turning to each other and nodding.

“If you’re going to join us,” the other woman says, “you’re going to have to do things differently. You’ll go through basic training. You may be separated. This isn’t a joke, or something you can do for fun, while waiting to go back to your country. This is something you have to commit to. If you’re with us, you’re with us till the end. Whatever that is. Am I being clear enough?”

“You are,” Liam answers. “And we understand perfectly. We’re here to help. That’s our mission.”

Louis feels sick.

“Good,” the first woman answer. “Then, welcome aboard, I guess. We’ll send you the details of your moving in our headquarters.”

And this is it. It’s done. As quickly as this. Whatever they had managed to build between them is now in the past or soon will be. Louis thinks of the flat he had begun to refer to as home. He thinks of his boys, of how much he loves them. Of the feeling of unity he has felt when he was with them, again and again. Early mornings in the kitchen, late nights in front of the fire.

This isn’t the war he envisioned. Yet, it’s the one he has to fight.

\---

“Do you really think they’re gonna separate us?” Harry asks, later, in bed.

They’re spooning,Harry’s back pressed against Louis’ chest, Louis fingers tracing idlepatterns across Harry’s ribs. Louis’ head is so close to Harry’s neck he could kiss him, but he doesn’t. Instead, he answers:

“Yes. That would be the thing to do, wouldn’t it? They can’t trust us yet, not really. If they keep us together, we’ll always be an added piece. Something foreign. If they separate us, we’ll have to blend in. Try to, at least.”

“I don’t want to be separated from you.”

“You won’t,” Louis says. “Not if I can help it.”

“You can’t just say that, Lou."

“I can actually.”

“Okay,” Harry exhales, shakily. “Okay.”

They don’t speak, for a while.

“Lou?” Harry says. “If we’re separated…”

“We won’t.”

“But if we are. I want you to know that the months I’ve spent here, like, with you guys, but especially with you, were really happy. I know it’s fucked up, and I know there shouldn’t be anything happy about the circumstances, but. I guess I was. Happy. So thank you.”

I was happy too, Louis thinks. Everything is wrong, and he shouldn’t feel like this, like his entire world is crumbling under his feet because this, the flat, Harry, were never things that were supposed to last. They were never things that were supposed to be his. Yet, for a little while, he had begun to think that they were.

“I was happy too,” he whispers.

He doesn’t know if Harry hears him. It doesn’t matter, he supposes. Not since it’s ending anyway.

\---

They leave the flat on a Monday morning.

They spend the night before holding each other tight.They don’t speak about what might happen. They don’t speak about how far they’ve come since their first encounter and that first night. They don’t say a word. It’s one of those nights where everything you could say seems superfluous, empty, before you ever had the time to formulate it.

Louis looks at the deserted flat one last time and thinks, we will never come back here. Whatever we do, whatever becomes of us, we won’t come back.

Harry is standing by him, silent but there. Louis turns to look at him and says:

“I’m good.”

“Let’s go then,” Harry replies.

\---

_No one makes history, not really. Or, everybody makes it. History isn’t a linear progression of facts neatly ordered. It’s messy, it’s bloody. So much has been forgotten, so many things have been lost. You work with what you have, and it’s never enough._

_You’re a part of history and history is a part of you. Years later, you try to put it all into a story, you try to make sense out of it. The thing is, you want people to understand. You want them to listen to you and think, so this is how it was, and this is what you’ve lived through, and this is why it was so terrible._

_But when you speak about it, you find yourself leaving things out. You don’t tell them about the nightmares. You don’t tell them about the sleepless nights spent next to a boy you barely knew yet felt like home. You tell them about the good stuff – the explosions, the attacks, how you were a hero, maybe._

_You weren’t._

_It’s the parts that you keep for yourself that are the most important. You tell yourself that it’s because people aren’t interested in those parts, but that’s a lie and you know it. Stories like these are made of bravery and fighting and light. You can’t tell them about the dark corners of your psyche, about the times you were so close to giving up, the times you cried yourself to sleep._

_So you tell them a lie and you hope they’ll eat it up, they’ll believe it. As if it could make you believe in it too._

_It doesn’t and you don’t. But that’s the thing about victory. It doesn’t matter if what you say isn’t true. There’s no one else to listen to._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The grass imagery in the interlude isn't mine, it comes from a quote by Boris Pasternak: “No one makes history, no one sees it happen, no one sees the grass grow.” 
> 
> The whole rambling about history and narratives is mine but if you're interested in narratives there's a brilliant text from Siken that you can read [here](http://sporkpress.com/3_1/Pieces/Siken.htm)
> 
> I think that's all for this chapter. That's basically the end of part one and next time things get harder for everybody involved rip.


	5. 5.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Louis?” Zayn begins, and this time his tone is cautious, almost fearful. “You don’t have to answer me if you don’t want to, but. Are you in love with Harry?” 
> 
> And, yeah. That’s an easy question actually.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, thanks to [Marianna](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sunshiner/pseuds/sunshiner) & [Clara](http://barefootau.tumblr.com/) for proofreading it. Thanks to [Jen](http://yslhoe.tumblr.com/).
> 
> & thanks to everybody reading this. :)

“There are many loves but only one war.”

Richard Siken, “War of the foxes”, in _War of the foxes_.

 

“Which one of you is the leader?”

They’re standing in front of what looks like a disaffected factory. There’s nothing around them but empty buildings with half smashed windows and doors torn open. The place is eerily quiet and, even though it’s a hot summer day, everything feels gloomy and dulled, like a rainy November afternoon.

“Louis is the leader,” Liam answers before anyone else has the chance to say anything.

Louis looks at him in surprise, but Liam only shrugs. The man turns toward Louis and extends his arm in an invitation for Louis to shake his hand.

“Simon,” the man says, introducing himself.“I’m the leader of the NY based resistance group,” he continues. “As you had probably gathered. I’m here to make sure that we assign you to posts that will best fit your abilities and benefit us. Our organization is basically divided into two groups, the planners and the fighters. Each group has its own rules and hierarchy, which, I’m sure, you’ll learn soon enough, so no need for me to paint you a detailed picture. While you’re here, you’ll answer to me and me only. You may as well forget about the British government or any misplaced sense of patriotism. We are now your only family and what you’re fighting for. Is that clear?”

There’s something cold and dismissive in his voice, something that makes Louis want to recoil and run far away from here. He nods instead.

“Great,” Simon says. “Glad we got that out of the way. So, how about you tell me what each one of you was doing when you were… working freelance?”

“Um”, Louis begins. “We were all involved in the planning, I guess, but Liam is our main strategist. Zayn worked with people on the black market and Niall mostly took care of the electronics and the, uh, technical aspect of things. I blew up things.”

“Ah,” Simon answers. “So it’s to you that we owe the job near the MET? Rather poorly executed, but effective.”

“Yeah. That was the goal,” Louis says through greeted teeth.

“And you?” Simon asks, turning to Harry. “What were you doing?”

Harry smiles at him, sweetly – and god, this doesn’t bode well at all, Louis thinks – and answers:

“Cooking eggs, mostly.”

Louis wants to laugh at Simon’s confused and slightly dismayed expression, but he can’t. He can see where this is all going, as clearly as if he were the one making the decisions, and he knows exactly what to do to keep Harry with him, to keep his promise.

“Harry worked in the field with me,” he says. It’s not even a lie.

“Right. So you,” Simon points at Niall, Liam and Zayn, “will be added to the planners. And two you will go with the fighters,” he says to Harry and Louis. It’s so so far from what Louis actually wants that for one moment he thinks he might start screaming but, in a way, it’s also better than anything he had dared hope for. At least, Harry will be with him.

Simon begins to walk toward a barely visible door and turns one last time, facing them.

“This is it,” he says. “Once you’ve passed this door, you can’t go back. You’ll be with us till the end, whatever that is. Are you sure that’s the choice you want to make?”

Louis would snort at the irony of that question if he thought he could actually get away with it.

“We’re sure,” is what he says instead.

“Welcome then,” Simon answers while opening the door.

They enter the Factory.

\---

It’s like stepping into another world. The place is huge, larger than it seemed from the outside, and bristling with life and people.

“We’ve had an influx of volunteers lately”, Simon offers as an explanation. “You three,” he says to Niall, Zayn and Liam “Please follow me, I’ll show you around the planners’ quarters. As for you,” he tells Harry and Louis, “Tania here will help you get settled in.” He doesn’t leave them a moment to say goodbye and all they can do is mouth “see you later” to each other. Then Harry and Louis are left alone with Tania.

She looks young, maybe younger than Harry, but has a pleasant smile and seems more inclined to help them than Simon was.

“Hi,” she says brightly. “Let’s get started, shall we? There’s a lot to see.”

The Factory, as they apparently call it, is mainly divided into three areas, the ground floor where the fighters have their living quarters and where the communal areas are, the first floor where the planners and the leaders live and a basement where training takes place.

“What about families?” Harry asks once they’ve visited the main areas and only their sleeping accommodations remain to be seen.

“We don’t take families in”, she says, her tone harsh. She seems to realize it and adds hurriedly: “Most of the people you’ll see here are quite young, like you. A lot of volunteers have lost their families during the riots or after. Families who come to us are urged to try getting out of the country or find a safe hiding place. We’re getting bigger, but we’re not an underground city, you realize. We are, by definition, a terrorist organisation.”

“Right,” Harry answers.

“Here,” she tells them, giving them a small card. “Those are the only way for you to get back in if you go out. Don’t lose them and please keep them hidden. If you get caught outside with them, no one will come find you. You’ll be declared a liability and will be suspected to have been turned by the government. There are no second chances.”

“So are we free to come and go as we want?” Louis asks.

“You’re strongly recommended to stay inside the Factory as much as you can. We have everything we need here and, if by chance we don’t, you can always ask someone whose job is to get supplies for whatever you may need.”

“And if I need a smoke?”

Louis isn’t trying to be contrary, but the whole thing, the Factory, the rules, the people are starting to feel oppressing and he can already feel the itch to get out, to leave this place if only for a few minutes.

“There’s a backdoor leading to a smoking area, this way,” she says, pointing toward a dark corner of the building. “Just make sure to have your card on you. Right, final thing before I show you where you’ll sleep. You’re fighters. This means you’ll have one week of training sessions before being dispatched on missions. Just go report to the main desk in the basement tomorrow morning, yeah?”

They both nod.

“And that’s where you’ll be sleeping,” Tania says. “I’ll let you settle in. Hmm, breakfast in the main area is at 7. You have the rest of the day free to do what you want.” She smiles at them one last time before leaving them alone.

They’re standing at the far end of an aisle that has been rearranged into a dormitory. Their “room” is made of a bunk bed separated from the others by a thin curtain.

“This is…,” Louis says, but never finishes his sentence. Not private is the first thing that comes to his mind. Fucking awful is the second. Absolutely not what he wants is the third. He knows it’s irrational, that this shouldn’t be the thing that breaks him, but somehow it seems like the last straw. He looks at Harry and knows they’re both thinking the same thing; that they won’t be able to sleep together anymore. Which is fucking unfair. The whole thing is unfair, and for one irrational moment Louis sees himself going to find Liam (because this is Liam’s fault) and yelling at him that all of this was unnecessary, that they used to be fine, and maybe Liam will yell back at him and tell him why he suddenly decided to appoint Louis as the leader of their little fucked up group.But the flare of anger passes, as quickly as it came, and Louis finds himself sitting on the lower bed, head hanging low, defeated.

“Lou, Lou. Are you alright?” he hears Harry ask.

When Louis doesn’t answer he continues:

“Please answer me, you’re scaring me. Louis?”

“It’s fine Haz,” he answers. “It’s all fine.” (Because Harry needs him to stay strong and he can’t fail Harry.) “Let’s just unpack, yeah?”

“If that’s what you want.”

“It is.”

\--- 

Getting settled in doesn’t take much time. Most of their housemates, Louis guesses he should call them, haven’t come back from whatever they’re doing yet, and they find themselves at loose ends until the next morning.

“Should we go explore?” Harry asks.

“Well, I don’t know about exploring, but I could use a smoke.”

“Let’s do that then.”

The backdoor Tania had indicated them is easy to find and, after showing their cards to a security guard who looks barely over sixteen years old, they find themselves outside, finally. There’s a wire fence enclosing the area, more in sign of delimitation than in a real attempt at keeping people in, considering the battered state of it.

“I can’t believe that Liam appointed me the leader,” Louis says, inhaling a bit of smoke. Harry only shrugs. “What?” Louis asks, curiously.

“Well, you kind of are Lou.”

“No, Liam is. He’s the one who took the decision for us to come here, remember? I wasn’t exactly on board with it.”

“Not to be, like, redundant or make fun of our situation,” Harry says slowly, “but I think that us being here proves that sometimes people feel the need to overthrow those who are in power. Liam taking this decision over you doesn’t make him the leader.”

“I don’t understand,” Louis frowns at his cigarette.

“I think you do,” and damn Harry for knowing him so well. “Do you remember when we first met?”

“Kinda hard to forget, innit?”

“Right. Do you know why I followed you? Because, the truth is, I could have escaped. You wouldn’t have bothered coming after me, you know. I could just have run away.”

“Well, you wanted to join a group, didn’t you?”

“I did. That’s not the point.”

“So what’s the fucking point Harry?” Louis asks exasperatedly.

“The point is, I wanted to join _your_ group.”

“Why?”

“Because I thought, if this guy I don’t know is willing to save me when I’m nothing to him, I know he’ll be willing to do anything for me when I am.”

“I still don’t understand how it has anything to do with me being the leader.”

“You’re stubborn, aren’t you?” Harry smiles. “Let me put it in another way then. Liam took the decision for us to come here, but you were the one who let go of his ego and accepted Liam’s decision even though you didn’t agree with it. That’s why you are the leader and Liam isn’t. Because you’re willing to sacrifice things. And Liam knows it. We all do.”

“So I guess being able to get over myself is a sign of leadership, is it?” Louis jokes.

“Louis….”

“I know. It’s a lot, Haz. It’s just… a lot.”

Harry nods in understanding, his hair almost brushing Louis’ neck. Louis suddenly realizes how odd it would look if someone were to stumble upon them, Louis slouched against a brick wall and Harry looming over him, them talking in hushed tones, so close they could almost kiss. Harry is looking at him intently, but then he always does. Louis wonders what it would be like to abandon all reason and let Harry kiss him, right now. To let Harry press him against this wall and for their bodies to mould together. To get one moment, just one brief moment of respite. A reprieve of sorts. There will be a time, Louis thinks. There will. Just not now.

“Let’s go back in, yeah?” he says.

“Let’s.”

\--- 

For the first time in three months, they don’t fall asleep next to each other.

Harry’s arm is hanging down from the upper bed, and Louis brushes the palm of his hand a few times with his fingers before turning around and trying to go to sleep. He doesn’t really.

It’s fine.

\--- 

It’s not fine.

He’s lying in bed, eyes wide open, unable to sleep for the third night in a row. The past days have been a blur of what they call “training”, which mostly consists in long hours in the basement, spent doing parodies of military exercises and having to be with people that aren’t his boys all day long, and fucking courses about how to correctly and skilfully make buildings explode. It would be less laughable if Louis hadn’t already gone through all that when he signed up for this mission and if the training provided didn’t seem like a strange caricature of Full Metal Jacket.

He hears Harry moving above him, and is about to ask what’s happening when Harry appears next to him and says in a voice that seems almost broken:

“Can I?”

“Yes,” Louis answers immediately, and the relief in his voice surprises even him.

They somehow manage to fit both of their bodies in the small bed, Harry’s face pressed against Louis’ chest, their legs entangled, as close as two human beings can be.

“I’ll make sure to go back in my bed before the others wake up,” Harry says.

“I don’t give a fuck.”

Harry laughs softly. “I’ve missed you so much.”

“I know. I’ve missed you too.”

“It’s stupid, isn’t it? We’re literally sleeping in the same bed. More or less.”

“It’s not stupid. It’s never stupid to miss how things used to be. Especially considering how different they are now.”

“Just like you said they would be,” and there’s something almost defeated in Harry’s voice that makes Louis panic a little.

“Hey, hey,” he says, cupping Harry’s chin with his fingers. “I know I’ve not been the most enthusiastic person about this whole thing, but it’s going to be fine. We can try to do something with the boys tomorrow after training, yeah?”

“I would like that,” Harry answers. “Yeah, that would definitely be nice.”

“Let’s do that then,” Louis says. “I’m sure we’ll find a way.”

“Lou?”

“Yeah?”

“I know you don’t really believe me about you being the leader. Or, like, don’t want to believe me. But it’s true. I’m not here because you kidnapped me or anything. I’m here because I chose to.”

“Love at first sight, eh?” Louis jokes feebly.

“More like… recognition,” Harry answers.

Louis doesn’t ask what Harry means by that because he knows, instinctively. It doesn’t happen often, but when it does it’s instant, seeing a person for the first time and thinking “oh, there you are.” Not knowing exactly what role they’ll come to play in your life but knowing that they have a role.

Louis likes to think that this thing between him and Harry, the closeness, the co-dependency maybe, isn’t all due to circumstances. That they could have met in another time, in another place and would still have felt it. He wonders what it would have been like if, on a spring morning, instead of seeing a poster on a wall, he had caught sight of Harry. If it would have diverted his attention from the idea of going to war and if he would have tried to find a way to speak to Harry instead. There’s comfort in imagining this, in thinking that one person can be enough to make you give up on a war you’ve been fighting your whole life. It’s a bit frightening too.

He watches Harry’s eyelids flutter, his respiration slowing down, him calmly going to sleep. It’s a nice thing, thinking about your life like a path and wondering what would have happened if, at some moment that retrospectively seems like a defining one, you had been given the choice to take another direction. The thing is, Louis isn’t sure you can get off the path you’ve set for yourself. He looks at Harry one last time before closing his eyes for the night and thinks _I’m glad it happened the way it did_.

\---

They’ve managed to find a secluded spot in one of the Factory’s quiet areas. They’re sitting in a circle, a bottle of whiskey Zayn’s managed to nick standing in the middle. None of them talk, for a while, just basking in the others’ presence and the feeling of being reunited. It’s not been long yet, not really, but it’s been long enough that they have missed this. The sensation of being a unit. Something that works, effortlessly.

“Well”, Niall starts. “I, for one, fucking hate it here.”

They all laugh, and it seems to break the underlying tension between them.

“Yeah, it’s weird,” Liam says, looking at Louis, and Louis knows this for what it is. An apology.

“Well,” Louis says. “Let’s try to forget all this for the night, shall we?”

He opens the bottle and takes a sip before passing it on. It’s strangely reminiscent of his student days, but he doesn’t mind. They are all so young, he thinks, looking at them. Harry isn’t even twenty-three. They could be students still, sitting on the floor of a small flat in London, drinking cheap red wine from tiny plastic cups and talking about essays and internships and job opportunities instead of trading stories about training and forging false documents and the art of bomb making. His fingers itch with the need to do something, hold something. He glances at Zayn and tilts his head in enquiry. Zayn nods.

“We’re going for a smoke,” he announces, interrupting Liam’s recounting of an apparently gruelling meeting with other strategists.

Outside the air is hot and humid, almost suffocating. It’s not much different from how Louis always feels, these days. Like he can barely breathe. He lights his cigarette and watches Zayn do the same, slumped against the Factory’s wall.

“Are you and Harry fucking?” Zayn asks, which wasn’t what Louis expected at all.

“Where the hell did that come from?” he answers indignantly.

Zayn shrugs. “People talk, you know. The guys who share the dorm with you. Said that you two slept in the same bed last night.”

“Well, it’s not like we weren’t sharing a bed before, is it? And yesterday was the first time since we moved in here.”

“Yeah, but you don’t have to here, do you? You both have your own bed.”

Louis thinks about getting into a rant about privacy and how this thing with Harry is his own damn business, but deflates quickly. He kind of wants to talk about it. Maybe telling someone else would help him make sense of what they’re doing.

“It’s not… We’re not like that,” he begins slowly.

“Like what?” Zayn prompts.

“Well, we’re not fucking, for once. It’s just, we got used to sleeping together, yeah? And, like, we just both have trouble sleeping and speaking about stuff like our day, or anything really, before going to sleep helps.”

“Still don’t have to be in the same bed to do that,” Zayn mutters.

“No, I know. That’s not… I’m trying to explain,” he exhales loudly, frustrated. Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe there’s no way of explaining to someone, an outsider, what he barely seems able to grasp himself.

“Hey, it’s fine,” Zayn says. “You don’t owe me anything. You don’t have to explain whatever it is you’re doing. I was just curious, because I could have sworn that you two weren’t properly together before we moved out and I wondered if it had changed. That’s all.”

“What do you mean properly together?”

“Well, it’s always been Harry and you, hasn’t it? Ever since he came to live with us. It’s like, I don’t know. You found something in him that you hadn’t found with us. Something more. Or something different.” He shrugs. “We’ve only been here for a few days and everybody can see it too.”

“Right, well, we’re not shagging. Just sleeping together. It helps. The intimacy, the closeness. It helps us deal with everything else.”

“Louis?” Zayn begins, and this time his tone is cautious, almost fearful. “You don’t have to answer me if you don’t want to, but. Are you in love with Harry?”

And, yeah. That’s an easy question actually. Louis thinks about an early morning in the kitchen after a fight, soft light illuminating the room and the feeling that they were the only two people left in the world. He thinks about afternoons spent lounging under the sun, time almost frozen, speaking about everything and nothing in particular. He thinks about endless nights spent holding Harry in his arms or just lying close to him, so close, and wishing he could somehow bottle up those moments, keep them intact and unaffected by anything else, and carry them with him because, in some strange way, they were enough to help him breathe more easily when everything else seemed to be closing around them and the whole world changed into this suffocating, unbearable place.

“Yeah,” he answers. “Of course I am.” The admission is neither daunting nor liberating. It’s just a fact, something inevitable and immovable. Louis is in love with Harry.

“And does Harry know?”

Which is, well, a more difficult question.

“I’m not sure, maybe. There was a moment where it seemed like things between us could change, but then the moving out happened. We’ve been kinda busy.”

“Don’t you think you should tell him?” Zayn asks. “Not to be gloomy but there’s like, a chance we won’t make it, you know? You should tell him.”

Louis would laugh if he thought he could get away with it without Zayn thinking he’s gone completely mad. Because, of course, he has thought about it. All those clichés about war bringing people closer together and turning strangers into lovers, of last chances before the battle that you should grab in fear that you won’t live to see another day. That’s not really what worries Louis though. The idea of dying. What he really fears, if he has to be honest - and in this moment, he is, completely - is that he will survive, but there will be nothing left to live for, once all is said and done. That he won’t have a parcel of his soul left intact for himself. Especially not if he gives everything to Harry… So maybe it’s fear that has been preventing him from taking things further with Harry, but not the kind of fear that Zayn is referring to. He dreads what will come _after_. He doesn’t know how to articulate that though, how to put this terror of _after_ into words, so he just says:

“Maybe I will. I’m going back in.”

“I’ll be there in a minute. I’m just gonna smoke another.”

Louis looks at him and sees, for the first time it seems, how tired and thin he looks, how this is taking its toll on him too. On all of them. He watches Zayn caress his hip, distractedly, and he knows this gesture, does it daily, knows the tattoo Zayn is touching lightly to reassure himself, even though there’s a layer of fabric between his hand and the inked skin. He feels a surge of guilt passing through him and almost choking him, for a brief moment, before it fades into nothing. He irrationally wishes that he could hold on to it, hold on to this feeling, could feel something other than weariness, fear and anxiety for more than a few seconds, but it doesn’t come back.

He thinks about saying something, offering a reassurance of sorts but, in the end, decides against it. He’s not sure he has anything to offer that wouldn’t be a lie.

He gets back inside and sits down next to Harry. He can see that they have made significant progress in trying to finish the bottle of whiskey and feels at odds with their happy mood and the soft laughter of their conversation.

“You were gone for a while,” Harry says in a hushed tone.

“Yeah, we talked for a bit.”

“Nice conversation?”

“It was okay,” he answers, because he can’t really say, “we talked about how I’m in love with you and how fucked up it is that we’re doing what we’re doing, or maybe how fucked up it is that we’re not doing more even though we could die tomorrow”.

Zayn joins them again and the conversation moves on to heavier topics.

“I’ve heard that things outside have been getting worse those past few days,” Liam says. “The government didn’t really appreciate our work during the MET gala.”

“Which was the goal,” Niall reminds them.

“Yeah,” Louis says, “but we mostly wanted to make connections, didn’t we? We didn’t think about the consequences it would have in terms of increased security and willingness to eradicate the rebel groups. Everybody here is on edge. I’ve heard people at training talk and say that they had to make us learn in one week what would usually have taken at least three.”

“They’re accelerating the training process then?” Liam asks.

“They are,” Louis answers. “I think they want to start using the new recruits as soon as they can. Most of them are fucking children,” he snorts derisively.

“Any idea of what they have in mind for you?” Zayn says.

“Small jobs, mostly. They’re not going to go for something as big as we did. They’re waiting for the storm to pass, right now.”

“How do you know all that?” Liam asks. “I’m supposed to be the one planning those things and I had no idea.”

“I listened. Talked to some people here and there. It’s not that hard.”

He feels Harry’s hand squeezing his knee and turns slightly to look at him. Harry’s smiling at him smugly, like he’s been proven right about something, and Louis remembers him saying: “you’re the leader Lou.” He shakes his head, but Harry’s smile only gets wider and Louis shrugs in defeat. He can let Harry have that.

The boys continue talking, but Louis isn’t really listening anymore, distracted by the feeling of Harry’s hand still on his knees, distracted by _Harry Harry Harry_. He lets himself get lulled by the warmth of the alcohol in his veins and the hushed buzz of quiet conversation. He’s not at peace, not exactly. But, all things considered, it’s a nice night.

\---

“Do you ever think about after? Like, what will happen once this is all over?” Louis asks, the night before he’s to be dispatched on his first mission. His conversation with Zayn has been weighting on him since their night together and talking to Harry always helps.

“You mean other than eventually going back to England? Not really, no. It’s what I told you about imagination.Like, sometimes I can imagine things, but most of the times I can’t. And even when I do it’s so… Abstract, you know?”

“A husband, children, yeah?”

“Yeah. There’s not much detail to it. Just kind of a perfect picture.”

“Right,” Louis hesitates. “That’s not really what I wanted to say, though. Or maybe it wasn’t the right question…”

“Why did you want to say then?”

“Do you ever wonder if we’re letting what we’re doing right now define us too much? Like, if we’re not losing ourselves in it? Sometimes, it feels like this is all I know anymore and I wonder if I’m keeping enough things for myself. If I’m not giving too much to it.” He stops for a bit, trying to gather his thoughts, trying to put into words something that he doesn’t really comprehend himself. “Like, let’s suppose we survive this and we have this whole future in front of us even though we can’t really imagine it right now, there will be years and years left to us, right? How do we do it, how do we live them, if the only thing we know of ourselves anymore is to be at war?”

“Then, I guess you learn how to be at peace again. Or, like, as much as you possibly can.”

“I’m afraid I won’t remember what it’s like.”

“Is this about tomorrow’s mission? Are you afraid it’s going to be bad?”

Not really.

“Maybe, a bit. It’s like I’ve been hanging on to those things, those parts of me I think I was sure of, those constant parts, in a way, and I’m wondering if I’m not losing them? I’m sorry, I’m not really making sense… I’m just afraid I won’t remember who I was before that. Who I am.”

“That’s fine,” Harry says.

“How could it be fine?”

“It’s fine if you forget, because I’ll be there, and I’ll remember. And if you need me to, I’ll make you remember.”

Sometimes, it feels like there’s something inside Louis, something that can’t stop screaming, like a lost child that begs and begs and begs for someone to find him and save him and to whom no one ever answers. Except that Harry just kind of did. It’s not enough, really, to quiet the screaming child, but it’s enough to keep at bay the terror that’s seemed ready to take over Louis since they arrived here.

He thinks their conversation is over for the night and starts willing himself to sleep, when Harry says, so softly it’s almost inaudible, but Louis still hears him:

“There’s one thing I can imagine about after, one thing that never disappears even during the days where I can’t imagine anything else.”

“What is it?”

“That you’ll be there, with me.”

Louis doesn’t answer, but holds Harry tighter. And yeah, maybe it’s not such an impossibility to think that Harry may be in love with him too.

\---

The next morning Louis is supposed to blow up a train full of provisions, and it’s a success.

He doesn’t think about the consequences of his actions on the people and families who were counting on this food coming in. He doesn’t think about the price of necessary products rising on the black market. He doesn’t think some of those people will starve.

This is only the beginning, and he can’t afford to think about anything else.

It doesn’t really make it easier.

When he comes back to the Factory after laying low for most of the day, it’s late afternoon, and Harry is waiting for him. Harry’s eyes roam over his body, searching for traces of eventual injuries and, once he seems reassured that Louis is fine, he takes him into his arms. Louis lets himself be held for a few minutes, before whispering; “I’m fine, Haz. It’s fine.”

And, for a little while, it really is.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It wasn't really my intention my Clara pointed out that the "oh, there you are," line is also in the book [I wrote this for you](http://www.amazon.com/I-Wrote-This-You-Pleasefindthis/dp/1926760689) that Harry was seen carrying a few months ago. If you like pain, like me, and imagining Harry reading this book while thinking about Louis you should read it. 
> 
> In the next chapter we finally arrive to the breaking point.


	6. 6.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When they wake up the next morning, Harry whispers, breath hot against Louis’ neck, “Let’s get away, right? Let’s go to the sea.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [Marianna](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sunshiner/pseuds/sunshiner) & [Clara](http://barefootau.tumblr.com/) for all the brainstorming & Marianna for proofreading this and like not killing me. A big thank you to [Jen](http://yslhoe.tumblr.com/), for her support, always. 
> 
> Thanks to everybody reading this. :)
> 
> Rip i'm so sorry for the time this took it was kind of a hard one.

“You cannot have an opponent if you keep saying yes.”

Richard Siken, “War of the foxes”, in _War of the foxes_.

 

After the success of his first mission, it seems like Louis has passed some sort of test he wasn’t aware he was taking. They still make him go on two other missions alone, before assigning him a “partner” – and really, when did they switch from Full Metal Jacket to a bad cop movie. The partner happens to be a girl. The first thing that comes to Louis’ mind when he sees her is that she can’t be over sixteen and, god, are there only children fighting this war? 

“My name is Len,” she tells him.

“Is that your real name?” he asks and winces, because he sounds a bit like a jerk.

“Real enough,” she answers him, unimpressed. Which, Louis thinks, is fair.

They form a good team together. Not as good as the one he would have made with Harry, according to him at least, but a good one nonetheless.

Things change.

Louis becomes good with explosive charges. He has to, considering the amount he handles on a weekly basis. He sees Harry less than he used to. They still sleep together at night, but most of the times they are too exhausted to utter more than a quiet “good night.” The bed is too small for the both of them, in a way his bed in the penthouse never was, and their nights are always too short and restless, but having Harry’s body next to him is, Louis begins to think, the only thing that’s truly preventing him from going mad.

There’s a feeling of detachment that comes with going on so many missions, with repeating the same gestures, the same actions every other day. Novelty fades into habit and fear into something more insidious and worrisome. Something like weariness. Harry stops waiting for him in front of the Factory when he comes back from his missions, and he stops expecting it. There are too many of themto worry that Louis won’t make it unscathed every time. So they stop worrying.

Louis doesn’t like it, doesn’t like any of this, but there’s little he can do to change that. And, even if there was, he feels too tired to try anyway.

\---

Len is something unexpected. She’s so young, is the thing. Louis looks at her and can’t help but think about his sisters. It stirs something in him, something incredibly protective that makes him remember why he’s doing all this. It’s not only about him and the wars within himself he wants to win. It’s not even about all those people he wants to prove wrong, as stupid as it is to go to war to make a point. It’s about more than this. It’s about saying, _I can do something with my life, I can take it away from the people who shattered it, even when they didn’t know they did, and build something out of the mess they created_.

Louis is glad for Harry. He’s glad that he met him and that he’s been this steady presence all along, preventing him from going mad with uncertainty and self-doubt, telling him that there’s something else awaiting him at the end of all this.

When he looks at Len, though, he feels something different, but still as precious.

“Why didn’t you flee?” he asks, one day, while they’re waiting for their target to arrive. (It’s a train, it’s always fucking trains.)

“During the riots?”

“Yeah.”

She shrugs. “My whole family was killed. There was nowhere for me to flee.”

Louis stays quiet.

“You weren’t there for the riots, were you?” she adds as an afterthought.

“No, I wasn’t.”

“I figured,” she says, and Louis can’t help but wonder why it seems so obvious to her.

“How did you know?” he asks.

“There’s a difference,” she answers, “between the people who are there because they wanted to and those of us who felt like they had no choice.”

“Sometimes, it feels like I had no choice,” he says, and he feels immediately ashamed because it’s not the same thing at all and he knows it. She’s kind enough to let it go.

“But you know it’s not really true, and that’s what matters in the end” she tells him instead.

“What does it feel like, then? Having no choice?”

“Like if I wasn’t doing this, I would be dead too.”

And no, Louis thinks. It’s really not the same thing at all.

When he looks at Len, he feels something different. Something new.

It’ a strange mixture of shame, guilt and sheer determination. Most of all, she reminds him that he chose this, that he wanted this. And if it isn’t much – not when he feels so fucking tired all the time and used to the core, not when there are so many nights he just wants to give up, whisper into Harry’s ear _let’s go away, let’s just, we don’t owe them anything, we can go away and be free –_ it’s enough to keep him here. At least a little longer.

\---

That night, he asks Harry something they haven’t talked about since the very beginning:

“What were the riots like?”

“Like the world was ending” Harry answers, “It wasn’t even that people were scared or like fleeing. It was just chaos. No one knew what was happening and no one knew whom to trust. People were fucking dying in the streets, every day, and there was nothing anyone could do.” He sighs. “What brought that up, Lou?”

“Len,” Louis begins, “she told me that she could tell I wasn’t there for the riots. That there’s a difference between people who were there and like, needed to stay, and people who weren’t and chose to come here.”

“And you want to know what it was like for me?”

“I guess I do, yeah.”

“I think it was a mix of both. The things I saw, they made me feel like I needed to stay. But, in the end, I chose to. Like, it never occurred to me that I couldn’t go back to England, really.”

“Is it… Like, is it bad that I sometimes feel like I had no choice? Does that make me a bad person?”

“I’m not sure how you feeling that you had no choice but to fight a war that isn’t yours can make you a bad person, Lou.”

“Sometimes,” Louis says, “I look at Len, and I think about how young she is, and it makes me feel incredibly selfish. Selfish and, like, tiny. It makes me feel like I don’t really know why I’m here and that I have no right to complain, you know? Because I chose to be here and I should just bear with it. It makes me feel like I don’t have a right to suffer, because, in a way, that’s what I wanted. Because I asked for it.”

“You are,” Harry starts, “incredibly brave. And the fact that you’re even thinking about this, thinking that you shouldn’t feel fucking terrified and exhausted and just bad when you are doing such hard things every day is kind of nuts, Lou. And it’s bullshit, honestly. You don’t want to be a martyr? Then don’t be.”

“You know it’s more complicated than that, though.”

“I know you think it is. Maybe it’s time to consider that it isn’t, Lou.”

“How?”

“This thing you came here for. This thing you’ve been trying to find, so hard. Maybe it’s time to wonder if you’ve not found it already. Your reason or answer, or whatever else it is. Maybe it’s time to stop thinking in terms of winning and start thinking in terms of what you’ve already accomplished, you know?”

Louis looks at Harry, eyes closed, eyelashes forming artful shadows on his cheekbones, and he thinks – I found you. He’s not sure if that’s what Harry means, though, so he only answers “Okay”.

But, when he falls asleep, he’s still thinking about Harry’s words. Maybe he was never supposed to win this, because there’s no way you can win this sort of war. Maybe, he thinks, meeting Harry and falling in love with him was enough of a victory. Maybe, finding people who can make you believe in a future you could never have foreseen yourself is the only kind of victory there could ever be.

\---

The thing is, they’ve done this so many times now, Louis honestly isn’t worried. They have a routine going on, and a well-rehearsed one. They go where they are supposed to, blow things up, come back to the Factory. Louis gets into bed, and Harry is either already there or joins him shortly after. They talk or don’t talk. Sometimes, one of them is shaking so badly the other has to hold him until it passes. Has to whisper soft encouragements and reassurances in the crook of a neck for everything to finally be okay.

So, when Louis joins Len that morning, he doesn’t expect anything to be different. And it isn’t, really, until they’re done setting their target on fire. That’s when things get bad. They’re just about to break into a run and get undercover when they hear a scream. It’s low and raspy and – suffering – and Louis’ first instinct is to go back running to the building and take whoever is screaming’s hand and get them safe. He doesn’t even have the time to actually think about it, because Len stops him immediately:

“We can’t.”

“Of course we can, we’re not going to let them die, are we?” he splutters and maybe, maybe he’s thinking about taking Harry’s hand and telling him to run, maybe he’s thinking that he didn’t sign for this, for letting people die.

“We are,” she answers. “I’m sorry Louis.”

So they keep running toward their shelter and there’s nothing Louis can do. 

“You know,” he says after a while – and his heart is still beating fast, pounding even, and he feels sick, god, like he’s going to puke at any given moment, “that’s how I met Harry. I was supposed to blow up a part of the subway and he was just, like, standing there, and I thought that I couldn’t let him die. So I just grabbed his hand and took him with me. He’s stayed with us ever since.”

“That’s a nice story,” she answers. “And a really lucky one, because you could have stumbled upon anybody.”

“But I didn’t, right? It was Harry.”

“Sure,” she says. “The thing is, when you met Harry, you were trying to start something. You were trying to get yourselves noticed. And that’s not what we’re doing.”

“No?”

“No. We’re trying to end this. Which is a completely different matter.”

“I still think we should have gone back,” Louis mutters and, god, he knows he sounds childish and desperate but he can’t help thinking _– what if it had been Harry?_

“If we had gone back, we would have died and you’d never have seen Harry again,” Len replies. “Start thinking about that maybe, yeah?”

There’s nothing Louis can answer, because she’s right. For a moment, he kind of hates her for it. Then, he thinks about how absurd it is to hate someone who doesn’t know anything else but war and he wants to cry. Not for him, not really, but for her. For what his sisters could have become if they had been born in the wrong country. For how the world works and how so much relies on contingency. He doesn’t. He takes her hand and whispers: “I’m sorry.”

It’s not enough, but she smiles at him and answers: “For what it’s worth, I’m glad you saved Harry.”

That, Louis thinks, makes two of them.

\---

That’s when it happens. And, in the end, it’s nothing like he thought it would be.

He’s lying in bed, and there’s a beautiful, beautiful boy lying next to him and – god – the day has been so exhausting and he thinks about not taking this boy’s hand in his, about leaving him to die. He thinks about that and, for a few minutes, he feels nothing.

That’s what scares him the most, in the end. Not the idea of contemplating leaving someone to die, but the idea that he could not feel a thing about it. That it’s a normal thought to entertain. That it has become a part of his routine. It’s not about the incongruousness of the thought. It’s about its utter normalcy. Like his indignation, earlier, had been nothing but a scam, something he’d faked to make himself believe that he could still feel things. That he’s still human.

He looks at Harry and that’s when he breaks. Everything he just thought about, the idea of letting Harry die, of letting anyone die, comes back at him and he feels sick. He wonders how he could let himself go that far into thinking that he wouldn’t care or feel. He wonders when it became normal. And, while Harry is holding him and Louis is whispering _, I would still grab your hand Haz, I swear I would, I fucking would_ , he thinks that he never knew breaking would actually be so soft. So utterly quiet.

That’s howbreaking points happen, then. In the middle of the night, when no one is awake to see them happen, and it feels like you barely are, too.

\---

When they wake up the next morning, Harry whispers, breath hot against Louis’ neck, “Let’s get away, right? Let’s go to the sea.”

“We can’t,’ Louis answers.

“Of course we can. We’re allowed to go out and you don’t have a mission today or tomorrow. Let’s do it. Just, like, you and me. And the sea. No one has to know, Lou.”

And the thing is, Harry’s right. No one has to know. It’ll be complicated, maybe, but they can do it. They can go to the sea.

“Right,” Louis says. “Let’s go take a swim, then.”

\--- 

They don’t tell anyone that they’re going away for the day, not even the boys, which is a bit reckless and definitely stupid but, Louis thinks, they’ll be fine as long as they’re back before curfew. They leave at dawn in a car they steal – _it’s not like we’re not already considered criminals, Lou –_ and drive for a few hours up north. There’s something exhilarating about it, a feeling of freedom Louis hasn’t felt in a long time. It makes him want to laugh until he can’t breathe anymore. It makes him want to believe that everything, in the end, is going to be fine.

They stop mid-morning in a small town that seems deserted. They take the supplies they brought with them out of the car – food and a few blankets – and begin marching toward the ocean. They find a spot in the sand, in front of the sea, and decide to settle there.

“This is nice,” Louis says.

“It is, isn’t it?” Harry answers, smiling.

“Not quite the right weather to go for a swim, though.”

“Hey, I’m sure I could do it,” Harry says, starting to get up. Louis stops him, grabbing his wrist.

“You’re not getting into this fucking water, Haz. You’ll freeze to death.”

Harry just laughs. It’s clear and pure and makes him look so young something in Louis just aches. For seeing Harry like this all the time, for having him like this, carefree and happy. It reminds Louis of afternoons spent in the playground and he thinks it’s a bit fucked up that he should remember those days as being good ones – but in a way, they really were.

“Fine,” Harry shrug, sitting down again. He’s facing Louis, their legs entangled like they usually are. As if they always need to be touching, somehow. “That’s not really adventurous of you, though.”

“I’m plenty adventurous,” Louis replies, “I’m just not a fucking madman like you.”

“You seem to be doing that a lot, Lou.”

“Doing what?”

“Grabbing some part of me and saving me.”

The way Harry says it it’s just a light-hearted joke, a reminder of how they first met, but Louis can’t help but remember what happened during his last mission. Harry seems to pick up on his change of mood immediately, because he asks:

“Do you want to talk about it? About the other night?”

And, yeah, that’s why they’re here, aren’t they? Because it all became too much and Louis ended up half-sobbing, half-whispering the most desperate pleas against Harry’s skin in the middle of the night, and Harry must have sensed the fracture in him, this fine, traitorous line between things being hard – so hard – but still okay and everything becoming too much to bear.

So Louis tells him about the mission and tells him about wanting to go back and Len preventing him to do so and –

“It wasn’t… It wasn’t even letting this one person die, you know? Like, we’re at war, I understand that some sacrifices have to be made. It was about everything else, really. I was lying in bed, and I just thought, well what if I hadn’t taken Harry’s hand. What if I had let him die too? And for a moment I just. Didn’t know how to feel about it and it terrified me.” Louis raises his head to look at Harry. “It terrifies me that I could even entertain the thought.”

Harry shakes his head in a “no” gesture, and there’s something painful in his expression, something raw and broken and, Louis thinks hysterically, maybe this is it. Maybe he has really lost him now, even though he never really had him.

“I’m sorry,” he starts, “I shouldn’t have said that…”

“No!” Harry interrupts him. He cradles Louis’ head in his hands and brings their foreheads together. “No, that wasn’t… I’m glad you told me.”

“Haz, are you crying?” They are very close and Louis can see tears running down Harry’s cheeks and – this wasn’t how this day was supposed to go at all. “Please don’t cry, I’m sorry. Hey, it’s fine right? We’re at the sea, and like, to be honest it was really a terrible idea, but it turned out kind of great, didn’t it? We’re having fun?”

“We are,” Harry chokes, and Louis is really panicking now. “Don’t be sorry, I’m sorry. It’s just. You’re trying so hard, always, to save everybody. You just want for everyone to be okay, so much, to not be like you, and it. It kind of breaks my heart.”

And there’s not much Louis can respond to this, because it’s true. When he looks at Len and thinks about how young she is, when he looks at Harry and thinks about how innocent he has managed to remain – how intact –, when he looks at his boys and when he thinks about his mother and his sisters at home, that’s what he really wants. To protect them. To save them. To shield them from something he wouldn’t be able to put into words but knows he wasn’t protected from.

“It breaks my heart,” Harry repeats, “because nothing makes sense if I can’t save you.” He laughs, a little, and Louis feels like his heart is breaking too, has been since he met Harry. “And I wish, I really wish I could be enough, you know? Which is, like, terribly selfish of me, because I know I can’t erase your past, and the truth is, if I had a choice, I wouldn’t even want to, because it brought you to me and you’re kind of," he exhales softly, "You’re kind of everything to me. You asked me once if you were a bad person. But what does it make me, wanting to save you so badly from what broke you and, at the same time, want to keep you exactly the way you are, because it gives me the illusion that you’re mine?”

Harry is looking at him and he seems a bit broken, a bit crazy – and that’s how Louis must have looked like the other night, he thinks. There’s something about him in that moment that’s incredibly honest, luminous and bright, and he’s so much more than everything Louis would have dared hope for, he just says, very quietly –

“Please, kiss me.”

So Harry does.

It’s a first kiss but, in a way, it isn’t. They’ve already been as close as two people can be, they’ve spent months entangled into each other, trying to get closer, always closer, as if they could somehow merge into each other and become one being. They’ve come close to kissing a hundred times, it feels, under a cherry tree in an abandoned playground and in a sunlit kitchen, during bright mornings and sleepless nights and this, this is more than something they’ve both been waiting for, it’s a confirmation. That they’re good at this. That they’re fucking great at this. At being together.

It’s a bit wet, and Harry tastes like salt, like tears, but he kisses Louis like Louis loves to be kissed and it’s honestly a little bit heady and feels like too much, but it’s also incredibly perfect. Harry makes the tiniest of noises and Louis feels lightheaded and out of breath, because this. This is Harry and Harry is kind of a miracle, something unexpected and unexplainable and he’s kissing Louis and wants Louis to kiss him and Louis is so so glad.

“I am,” Louis says when they finally part, “so in love with you.”

Harry laughs but it’s not rough or painful anymore. It’s calm, and quiet and content.

“I’m in love with you too,” he answers in a whisper.

And, like, Louis already kind of knew that, but it still feels like the world finally reorders itself around Harry’s words, like it makes a little more sense, suddenly, and everything becomes a little easier to bear. Maybe it shouldn’t be like this. Maybe it’s kinda fucked up that they found each other under such terrible circumstances, but Harry is right, Louis thinks. Even if he could go back, even if he could prevent some things from happening and somehow manage to keep himself intact – or at least less broken – he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t change a thing on his journey to meeting Harry. And maybe, maybe that’s how you start to heal, he thinks. Not because you meet someone and it changes you, but because you meet them and you feel glad that whatever you went through brought you there. To this person.

Sometimes, breaking points are only beginnings.

\--- 

Harry rearranges their limbs so that his back is pressed against Louis chest, Louis’ chin nestled in the crook of his neck, both of them facing the ocean and the never-ending movement of the waves crashing against the sand again and again.

“It feels a bit like we’re at the end of the world,” Louis says.

“That’s fine,” Harry answers. “If the world had to end, I would want to be with you anyway. I’d want to be with you anywhere.”

Which is a bit too much and, at the same time, not nearly enough.

“I love you so much,” Louis whispers because he really, really can’t help himself.

Harry turns around and smiles at him and says: “I’m glad. Now let’s watch the world end.”

It doesn’t, really, but they still do.

\---

They go back to the car just before the sun starts to set.

Harry keeps caressing Louis’ thigh until Louis says, laughing but a bit aroused, “There’s no way we spent the past six months sleeping together for us to first have sex in a fucking stolen car, Haz.”

Harry pouts for the rest of the drive.

\--- 

They come back to the Factory just before curfew. They avoid everybody and slip into bed while the lights are still on. It’s not really different from any other night, except for the light kisses Harry keeps peppering along Louis’ neck and the way their mouths keep finding the other, sometimes slow and languid and sweet, sometimes desperate and bruising and needy. But, even then, it feels more like an extension of what they were already doing before than something new.

“You know, I kind of lied about the athletes,” Harry says.

“The athletes?”

“Yeah, remember? The athletes on the island.”

“I remember, yes.”

“The thing is, they really do have no hope. I didn’t lie about this. But, like, they’re also human so, in a way, even though they have no hope and know they shouldn’t wait for anything more or better, they still do. They can’t help themselves. They always kind of hope that something will save them.”

“You know I don’t actually need saving, right?” Louis asks, because he really doesn’t.

“Yeah, I know that, Lou,” Harry answers quietly. “And I’m sorry if what I said earlier made you feel like I thought you did. I think that there are things that broke you, a bit. And I think that’s fine because we all have things that broke us a bit. Sometimes it makes me really angry because I want to, like, yell at all those things, or all those people, and I imagine you. Not like you are now, but younger. And I imagine what could have been if I had been there too. You’re not the only one with the hero complex, you know? So like. I imagine that and us being younger, and being together and I like to think that, maybe, it would have made things a little easier, for you and me.” He stays silent, for a while. “That’s just something I can’t help thinking about. But it doesn’t mean that I don’t want you, exactly the way you are now.” Then, more quietly, he adds: “I’d want any version of you, Lou.”

Louis doesn’t say it but of course, of course he’d want any version of Harry too. He can’t think of any world where he wouldn’t fall in love with Harry, of any moment in time where they wouldn’t find each other and just – click.

There are a lot of things Louis doesn’t believe in. He doesn’t believe in God. He doesn’t believe in making the same mistakes twice. He doesn’t believe in saying sorry when you don’t really mean it.

He’s not so sure about not believing in fate. And maybe it’s not fate, really, that he believes in. Maybe it’s something more complicated than that. He believes in choices. In making them, and sticking to them, and seeing them to their end. He believes that he’s here for a reason, and that all his choices, somehow, led him to this. To Harry. And maybe that’s the exact opposite of fate. Or maybe philosophers were wrong all along when they thought that fate meant the absence of choice. Maybe it only means that what you choose leads you precisely to where you’re supposed to be.

It doesn’t matter in the end, because Louis has Harry now. And no, it doesn’t erase anything, really. But it makes the future seem a little brighter, and the past look a little easier.

And, for the first time in a long while, Louis thinks that he’s going to be fine. That they’re both going to.


	7. 7.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to the usual crew and especially Clara for proofreading. 
> 
> I'm so sorry of the time it took to update but the last chapter is being written and won't take as much time promise. 
> 
> Thanks for reading.

 

« Never finish a war without starting another. »

Richard Siken, “Birds hover the trampled field” in _War of the foxes_

“I can’t believe it’s already November,” Harry whispers quietly in the early light of the morning.

It’s not quite time for them to get up yet and while Louis can feel something heavier than exhaustion settling in his bones, he also wants to enjoy those few moments with Harry, before he has to go back to a world that isn’t them alone – a world where he has to fight and smile while doing it. If they only have a few minutes as a reprieve, at least he’ll enjoy them for what they are.

“I know,” Louis answers, tone hushed. “It’s been more than a year since I – since we came here. Sometimes, it feels like longer.”

“Do you think we’ll spend another winter here?”

“Right now, I don’t really care,” Louis laughs softly.

They’re entwined, like they always are in the mornings, except that, for the first time, they’re both naked. Nothing stands between them and although Louis feels like it shouldn’t matter, he derives a strange satisfaction out of it. Here they are, as close as two people could ever be, probably closer than two people have ever been and they are, in that moment, absolutely perfect.

Maybe the world truly ended, the day before, while they watched the ocean and that’s what’s left of it: two men alone in a too small bed – the last people on earth.

“And why, may I ask, don’t you care?” Harry says, smiling lazily.

(Maybe it’s not the morning after the end of the world after all. Maybe it’s a different kind of morning. A Sunday morning in a small flat in London. They have nothing planned, nothing else to do but stay in bed all day, enjoying each other. It could be spring or it could be November still, raindrops falling against the windows in a hypnotizing rhythm. It would be the same feeling and that’s what Louis tells Harry.)

“I just feel – really calm. I didn’t think I would feel like this.”

“Calm?”

“Calm and so quiet. It’s like,” Louis starts, tracing the tip of Harry’s nose with a finger, then the curve of his jaw, then the outline of his collarbones, “everything suddenly makes sense.”

“Because of,” Harry exhales softly, ”this? Us?”

Louis doesn’t answer immediately. They’ve become good at this, him and Harry, this game of questions and answers, of give and take, of truths uttered in the dark and silences that tell more than they really want them to. He takes some time to regroup, to think about what he’s going to say. How to say it in a way that’ll make Harry understand exactly what he means.

“The thing you said, about having a husband and children?”

“Yeah?”

“I want that too,” Louis says. “I didn’t think I would. Or more like, I didn’t really envision it before you. It’s like, in some way, I was robbed of my future a long time ago. And since I saw no future for me I came here because it meant that I would effectively not have to think about the future too much. That I would have to keep myself to the present. If I put myself in a position where a future was just a fleeting dream, it was okay to not even be able to imagine one.”

“But not anymore?”

“No. Not anymore. Now, I want… Harry, I want it all. And I want it all with you.”

Harry smiles at him, bright – so bright – and kisses him lightly, a peck on his forehead, on his eyebrow, at the corner of his mouth. Somehow, those small kisses feel even more devastating than the way Harry’s hands felt on his body the night before, warm and sure and so firm.

“So, what does all entail, Lou?” he asks, mouth pressed against Louis’ jaw.

“I. Whatever you want, I guess.”

“Yeah, but what do you want?”

“I want. To wake up next to you every morning. I want for it to feel like it’s sunny and bright, even when it’s raining. I want to make you your tea in our kitchen, which definitely should be really big. I want to kiss you and revel in the utter normalcy of it. I want to kiss you and still be surprised by it. I want to help you choose what tie you’re going to wear. Like, if you have to wear a tie. I want you to help me choose what tie I’m going to wear, although I hate wearing ties. I want,” he says shakily, “for this not to be the end but the beginning. I want, one day, to be able to tell this story and it would be the story of how I thought my life was ending, but was instead only just beginning. That’s what I want,” he repeats, looking at Harry. “I want for us to survive this, not because we have to, but because we want to. Because we have something to look forward to. I want this time of my life to be less about how I went to war, and more about how I met the love of my life.”

“Is that. Is that me, then?” Harry asks.

“Yeah. Of course it is, Haz.”

“That’s… Good,” Harry laughs. “That’s really, really good.” He looks at Louis, green eyes open wide and honest. “Those things you said. I want that too, with you. And I’ll do anything to give it to you.”

It’s a November morning, that’s the only thing Louis remembers. He can’t tell if it was sunny and cold outside or simply damp and raining. He’s not sure how the rest of the day passed. He remembers other days and other moments. But this one is a blur, except for the morning. The morning after they first said I love you, but also the morning before everything else. The morning in between. Like a promise that some things were now in the past and that brighter things were to come.

\--- 

November passes in a blur of missions and too late nights spent learning Harry’s body like Louis spent the past six months learning his mind.

Sometimes, Louis forgets about this first morning, about the sheer promise of it, its brightness, his utter faith in the future.

Sometimes, Louis comes back to their small corner of a room in a too big dormitory and feels like nothing will ever be whole again like it wasjust one big lie – a promise of better days and hopeful tomorrows that could never become reality.

Sometimes, Louis comes back and forgets all about the war, about the dullness of repetitive missions, about the political climate becoming heavier and heavier. He finds solace in Harry’s arms and they’re enough – together they’re enough and more.

Louis learns that he can’t quite forget the idea that something more is awaiting them, that there’s an end date to this madness and that each passing day is getting them closer to it.

That’s how it goes: Louis can’t quite remember, but he also can’t forget.

November passes in a blur.

\--- 

“I have bad news,” Simon tells them one December evening. They’re all gathered in the dining area for the first time since they arrived at the Factory. It’s a mess of people and whispers and Louis knew they wouldn’t be hearing good news when they’d received the summon but he still had hoped – it’s bad news.

“We’ve been found out. We’ll have to evacuate the area shortly if we don’t want to get caught in a trap. We have, I think, a few days, but not a lot. We have a choice,” he says – and he stares at them like they don’t actually have any choice, like they never had. “We can go away quietly, change locations, re-establish headquarters somewhere else, or. We can go with a bang. Let them find us. Fight back. Hope we can take as many as we can down with us.”

He marks a pause and Louis’ head is pounding. This, he thinks, isn’t how it was supposed to go. They were supposed to be in charge, in control. Not to wait until they were slaughtered.

(He thinks of a November morning, Harry in bed with him, both of them so so in love, murmuring promises about the future and how bright, how luminous it would be. He thinks – it can’t have been in vain.)

“I’m going to leave you a choice,” Simon continues. “You can leave, now. Or you can stay with us and fight. Those who want to leave will be transferred to other groups but I urge you to think about it, about all we’ve accomplished together. I urge you to think about what’s right. Please don’t disappoint me.” He lets the silence penetrate the crowd. “You’re free to go.”

\--- 

Louis is standing in the middle of where the crowd still was a few minutes ago when Simon founds him.

“Louis,” he exclaims, smiling brightly. “I wanted to talk to you.”

“What is there to talk about?” Louis asks.

“You were there for my speech?” Simon says more than he asks – like Louis had a choice.

“Sure, yeah,” Louis answers.

“I’ve heard from London,” Simon tells him. “Whatever happens, you’re going home, you and your boys. Harry too if you want him to come with you. This is our last mission but it’s also yours. The UK wants you back and is prepared to send other boys after you. “

“Okay,” Louis exhales. “And why are you telling me this?”

“Aren’t you their leader, boy?”

“I,” Louis almost says no. He’s not a leader and never has been – Liam. Liam was the leader. But then he remembers Harry telling him, you’re the leader Lou, and he remembers listening to his mother when he was far to young to even comprehend what was going on between her and his stepfather, he remembers taking care of his sisters, every night, smiling when he felt like crumbling inside, he remembers deciding to go to war. So he says:

“Yeah. I guess I am.”

“It’s your choice, like it’s those people’s choice. But I hope you’ll stay and fight with us, yeah?”

And Louis could say no. Now that he knows they’re allowed to go back, that they’ve completed their mission he could, absolutely, say no. They’ve done enough, he thinks. They’ve cried, and they’ve bled, and they’ve spent sleepless nights thinking about how to make this world better and they’ve tried so hard. But he also knows his boys, intimately, almost better than he knows himself. He knows that they wouldn’t want to leave before all is said and done. He knows that they came here, if not for the same thing than him, then, at least in search of something similar. The last thing he can do, he thinks, is give it to them.

“We will.”

\--- 

It’s not the eve of the battle, but it feels as though it could be. They’re all gathered in a circle, for the second time since they first arrived, passing a bottle of vodka among themselves. Louis thinks he has missed them, has missed the comfort of the five of them together, as easy and natural as breathing. He also thinks that it’s the last time. Not because he necessarily believes one of them won’t make it but because he’s able to realise that their closeness, their sense of belonging, the sheer tenderness between them belongs to this specific moment in time, this moment of war.

The thing is, Louis thinks, they won’t come back here. Their time is done. And however hard it may have been, however brutal and meaningless as it may have sometimes seemed to be he found those boys. He’s going to lose them and he knows that.

Niall is laughing, cheeks a bit too red, scars Louis barely knows about fracturing his soul. Liam is whispering something to Zayn, more relaxed than Louis’s ever seen him when he should, in theory, be more serious than ever and maybe Louis isn’t the only one who’s learned something along the way. Zayn’s eyes briefly catch Louis looking at them and he smiles, a small and private thing that belongs to them only, before turning his attention back to Liam. And Harry.

Harry is pressed against him, head resting softly on Louis’ shoulder, watching them all. It’s not the cautious and somewhat shy observation he used to do in the early days he was with them, though. It’s something warmer, more knowledgeable. Something that says _I’ve been through so much with you and I know you, inside and out, in a way no one else will ever be able to know you because they weren’t there. They weren’t us._

This is the end – and it’s not a dramatic realisation. It’s a quiet reckoning. This is the end and Louis isn’t sure he’s prepared to let things end like this, to let everything go. Which is why he suddenly says:

“We should get tattoos. Like, matching ones.”

“Mate,” Liam starts, “I’m not sure this is a good idea. We’re all quite drunk.”

“I’ve never gotten a tattoo,” Niall says at the same time.

“That kinda came out of nowhere” Zayn finishes.

Louis feels ready to argue and convince them when Harry starts talking, voice slow and slightly slurred:

“Why not? I don’t know about you guys but I’m a bit scared of what may happen during the battle. Or, like, even after. And I know that you saved my life. Literally. I wouldn’t be there if you hadn’t taken me in and accepted me as one of you. Maybe it’s a stupid idea, but this is war. If there’s a right time for stupid ideas, this is it, isn’t it? It’s now or never. And it doesn’t have to be a big thing. It can be something we can easily hide, like something on our ankles. Something to remind us that we went through this together. Could be nice, that’s all I’m saying.”

In that moment, Louis loves him so much he feels like he could write him a song.

“Thanks Haz,” he says in a low voice, before looking at his three other boys expectantly.

Zayn is the first to cave in.

“Well, if you all agree I’m in,” he answers. “Not like I don’t have some dumb things tattooed.”

“Right,” Liam agrees. “Same.”

Niall is the last one to speak up.

“Where I come from,” he says, ”people usually get tattoos for the wrong reasons. Or often because they are drunk. Which,” he laughs, “we definitely are. But I don’t think meeting you guys and wanting to remember the time we’ve spent together is a bad reason, or a wrong one. So yeah, I’m in.”

Louis knows his smile is blinding.

\--- 

Louis knows that Len’s girlfriend is a tattoo artist, which is how they all end up bundled in a small room in a part of the Factory he barely ever set foot in before, their ankles bandaged where they now have screws tattooed, a girl younger than they all are lecturing them about proper tattoo care.

“Not that this is really useful,” Senna says, “considering what’s going to happen in a few days. But at least keep it in mind?”

They all nod dutifully.

“Well, then. Time for you to go I guess.”

Louis starts getting up when Harry’s hand comes to rest on his arm, effectively stopping him.

“You guys can go,” Harry says. “I’d like to speak to Louis about something, if that’s alright?”

“Sure, I’m knackered,” Liam answers. “We’ll see you tomorrow right?”

“You will,” Louis laughs.

He lets himself get pulled into a hug, a whispered promise of “tomorrow” passing among them and before he knows it he’s alone in the room with Harry and Senna.

“So, what’s this all about Haz?” he asks. He feels like he knows exactly what this is about but that he should make sure anyway.

“The thing I said, about you guys saving my life?”

“Yeah?”

“It’s true. Like, I’m not sure where I would be if you hadn’t taken me in. But it’s especially true of you.”

“Okay?” Louis exhales softly. He knows, distantly, that Senna is still in the room with them but it doesn’t matter right now. What matters is this, what Harry is trying to tell him.

“Right. There’s not really a way to ask this in a way that won’t seem mad or over the top I guess, so I’m just going to tell you and please don’t laugh at me?”

“You know I wouldn’t.”

“Yeah,” he laughs. “Yeah, I know. This is still scary though.” He inhales sharply. “I would like for us – for the two of us – to get tattoos too. Like, matching ones.”

“Is this. Is this because we might die, during the battle?”

“No. Those things you said, the morning after we got together? Those things about wanting a future with me, and like making me tea every morning? I want that too. And I know that you know it, but I’m. I’m afraid. I’m fucking scared to death, Lou. I’m scared that we’ll survive this, and go back to London, and that we will realise what we felt only belonged here. That it was only true in those specific circumstances. And as much as I don’t want that, I don’t know it won’t happen. Maybe you’ll get bored of me.”

“I wouldn’t.”

“Maybe you’ll realise I’m not what you want.”

“Haz…”

“Maybe,” he says and he’s kind of breaking Louis’ heart, “we won’t know how to love each other outside of war. And if that happens – I hope it doesn’t, but if it does Louis, I want something to remember that there was a time and a place, where we believed strongly enough in our own story, in our happy ending that we decided to get matching tattoos. It may be stupid but that’s what I want.”

There are things Louis could say. Things like _, I’ll always love you, and things like – of course this doesn’t mean the end of us, it’s just the end of an era_. He could say, _there are a lot of things I’m not sure of but I was sure when I chose you, I’d never been surer_. They would all be cheesy and not necessarily untrue, but he knows that’s not what Harry needs. He needs something stronger than words, something that time can’t erase. And Louis understands this, of course he does. He understands the need to remember things so intensely that just knowing they are true isn’t enough, you have to ink them under your skin for the whole world to see. He knows that tattoos work both as an act of defiance and as reassurance, knows it as surely as he can remember how many times he’s let his fingertips wander against the small triangle on his ankle, allowing himself to remember a truth he never wants to forget.

So he says the only thing that seems right:

“What were you thinking about?” 

\--- 

This time, it’s the eve of the battle. They’re lying in bed, Louis’ fingertips idly tracing the contour of Harry’s freshly inked boat tattoo.

“There’s a dream I keep having,” Harry starts.

Louis hums noncommittally, happy enough to let Harry lead the conversation.

“I’m on a road. You’re gone and the only thing I know is that I have to find you. There’s a road and I know that at the end of the road there’s you. So I’m like standing there, at the beginning of the road and I know it’s long and I know that it goes north and that it’s going to be hard and get cold. In the dream I’m not cold yet but I can already feel the cold. And fuck, I hate being cold.”

“I know you do,” Louis whispers.

“Right, yeah. So I think about that. I think that there’s a road, that leads to you and that it’s going to be cold. And then I think that I don’t care about the cold. I only care about finding you.”

“And then?”

“That’s when the dream ends. When I think that I don’t care about the cold. That the only thing that matters is getting on the road and finding you.”

“Why am I lost?”

“I don’t think you are, not really,” Harry frowns. “More like, someone took you away from me. And I resolve to find you. It’s about that resolution, I think. About deciding that nothing matters, not the cold, not how long the road is. That it’s worth it. You’re worth it. That I would crawl a thousand miles and more to come find you and get you back home with me.”

“That’s a lot, Haz.”

“Is it too much?”

“No,” Louis answers – and it isn’t. “If I had to be abducted and wait for someone to come and save me, I’d want it to be you.”

“Even if you don’t need saving?”

“Even if I don’t need saving, yeah,” Louis answers. “You do realise your dream is basically the plot of an Andersen fairytale though? I used to read this to my sisters all the time.”

“I hadn’t realised that, no.”

“Well it is. The little girl, Gerda, has to go north to find her friend, Kay, who has been abducted by the Snow Queen and is being held in her palace. And the only way for him to get free is to form the word “eternity” with pieces of ice. So this little girl goes all the way north alone to find him and when she does, he finally manages to write the word eternity and they go home together. It’s a nice story – less gloomy than others.”

“What happens next?”

“They live happily ever after. Or, well, I guess it’s implied.”

“That’s lovely."

“It is. Are you still scared about tomorrow?”

Harry traces the lines of the compass now tattooed on Louis’ skin forever.

“No,” he says. “Not anymore.”

It’s enough for now.

\---

They’re standing near the entrance of the Factory, almost hugging but not quite.

There’s not much left to say, Louis thinks. During the months he’s known Harry, those mad, terrifying, yet somehow beautiful months, they’ve spent countless hours, in bed and out of bed, talking about everything and anything, really. They’ve talked about their past, and their lives back home, they’ve talked about their future, first the ones they imagined for themselves, then the one they’ve begun to imagine together. Louis can distinctly remember a night sitting on the bed, legs crossed, listening to Harry telling him about war and Hannah Arendt, he can remember Harry whispering to him strange verses of obscure poems in the first lights of the morning. He also remembers giving back, telling Harry about historical queer figures he liked to research in his free time, about stories he would read to his sisters. There’s not much left to say, but he feels that what he’s about to say is one of the most important things he’s ever told Harry:

“A few months ago, I’d have been terrified. At the idea that this is ending.”

“And now?”

Louis smiles at Harry and, slowly, takes his hand in his, lacing their fingers together. It’s fitting that things should end the way they began, Harry’s hand in his and bright, coloured explosions lightening their path. Except, this time, they’re not running away from them but running toward them. Or, maybe, it’s less about running now, and more about facing whatever may come their way.

It’s a very calm feeling, one Louis has only felt a few times in his life. The feeling that you’ve done everything you could, that there’s nothing left to be done. That whatever must happen will and that you have no other choice but to face it and defeat it.

“Now,” Louis says, “I’m ready.”

It’s not the end, not really. But here, in this moment in time, a few seconds away from leaving everything he’s known for months behind, it might as well be. Outside the Factory is the unknown, a life devoid of war and – yeah, the idea should be terrifying. There are times, Louis thinks, it probably still will be. Just, not now.

He squeezes Harry’s hand, once, and together they step out of the Factory and into the battle.


	8. 8.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "After the battle, when everything is over Louis and Harry don’t go back home. Instead, they spend an entire month by themselves, alone in the Bahamas.
> 
> Louis likes to think it isn’t selfish of them, that they’ve earned it.
> 
> The truth is, they’re not ready to go back. So they don’t."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual thanks to [Marianna](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sunshiner/pseuds/sunshiner) and [Clara](http://ferntattoos.tumblr.com/)& [Jen](http://hershelstagram.tumblr.com/) for having faith in me, encouraging me and being the best friends ever. 
> 
> I can't believe that I started this in July because I was feeling nostalgic about old school HP fics and am only finishing it now. But it was great and i've never written so much in English and it was just. A good thing. 
> 
> You can find me on tumblr [here](http://cleminism.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Thanks so much to everybody who read, commented, liked & subscribed. I hope you like the ending. If you want to talk to me about history and philosophy or narratives i'm always there!

8//Epilogue.

« Let me tell you a story about war. »

Richard Siken, “War of the foxes”, in _War of the foxes  
_

 

_The truth is, there are no endings. You cannot pinpoint a moment in time and say: “this is where it ended.” Things follow you. There are ghosts in your life and you have nightmares. That’s how it is._

_You wish you could. You wish there were such things as clean cuts and leaving everything behind. You wish you could erase your memory, clear your skin of the scars that’ve been etched on it, forget what people did to you – what you did to yourself._

_You can’t._

_You remember. You feel that you have to remember. That you can’t help but remembering._

_There’s a word for it, and that word is nostalgia. In Greek it means “the pain of going back.” You wonder: is it the pain of going back, or the pain of being back? Greek has no answer to that question, and neither do you. You can’t really argue with the ambiguities of grammar._

_So you’re back but it hasn’t ended._

_When you were younger you read everything you could about Ulysses. You learnt how he went to war and came out of it alive and decided to go home. It took him ten years, you remember. And he battled monsters and fell in lust and fought and laughed and cried and all this time he wanted to go back home and tried – so hard. His story ends once he’s home and you can’t help but wonder – how long did he stay. How long before something under his skin started itching, how long before he missed having a sense of purpose, how long before he missed war?_

_You’d like to think Ulysses had a happy ending. You’re just not sure that ending included staying with his wife on Ithaca._

_This is the thing myths and fairytales never tell you._

_What happens after you’ve come home._

\--- 

After the battle, when everything is over Louis and Harry don’t go back home. Instead, they spend an entire month by themselves, alone in the Bahamas.

Louis likes to think it isn’t selfish of them, that they’ve earned it.

The truth is, they’re not ready to go back. So they don’t.

\--- 

That’s how it goes.

Louis wakes up in the middle of the night, sweating, barely able to breathe. Harry is right next to him, whispering _I love you I love you it’s alright, I love you_.

And it’s not alright. Louis misses the Factory, misses their flat in Brooklyn, misses war like you would miss a limb. He feels like the air is so thin he can barely inhale, he can barely exhale. He says, _I want to go back, Haz, I want to go back._ Outside, everything is quiet and soft, the waves barely making a noise when they touch the sand and everything feels so fucking wrong. He wants explosions, he wants detonations. He wants for things not to feel so quiet.

He weeps and Harry holds him. He cries and it’s fucking ugly, it’s red cheeks and devastation. He thinks, there is no healing from this. There is no healing from going to war and coming back. He thinks _I wish we had never come back._

He’s not ready to go home.

\---

After the Bahamas, they spend another month travelling across Europe.

In Paris, they eat pastries on the steps of the Panthéon and they laugh and laugh and laugh.

In Rome, Harry cries when they reach the Colosseum and Louis holds him in his arms and it’s his turn to say _it’s alright, we’re going to be fine, it’s alright._

In Prague, they stand in the middle of a bridge and don’t speak. The wind feels ready to engulf them, yet they refuse to let go.

In Amsterdam, they smoke too much and get sick and Louis thinks he’s definitely too old for these kind of things.

They’re alive. That’s what he thinks about, most of the times. They’re alive, and not in New York anymore, and the war continues without them.

They have to let it go.

So they end up going back to London.

\--- 

**_One year later_ _._**

****

Louis closes the door of the flat behind him. He isn’t sure, exactly, what he expects but it’s definitely not Harry sitting on the floor, pictures scattered around him, frowning at them like they’re holding some kind of unrevealed meaning.

“Hey babe,” he says softly.

Harry raises his head to look up at him, smiling.

“Hey,” he answers. “How did the lecture go?”

“It was fine. What are you doing? You’re not reconsidering, are you?”

“No, not reconsidering, just. I’m not sure I made the right choices? What if they all hate it?”

He’s on the floor, looking strangely childish and, in a way, incredibly small and heartbreaking and the only thing Louis can think about is how much he loves him, how he always has. He gets rid off his jacket and comes sit on the floor next to Harry – their shoulders lightly touching.

“Well, I definitely like this one,” he says jokingly, pointing at a black and white picture of himself resting on the grass on the playground where they used to go, back in New York.

“I like that one too,” Harry smiles, softly.

“Well, it’s a good thing, isn’t it?” Louis asks. “Like, you can always make a second exhibition if you want to. I’m sure this one is gonna be fine, though. You’ve worked so hard and you’re so talented. People will love it.”

“I’m glad you think so, Lou. It’s just. I don’t know. How could a bunch of pictures reflect everything we’ve been through? Like, I can’t help thinking that people will see those pictures and think “well it wasn’t so bad” or on the contrary will feel horrified because that’s how you’re supposed to feel and that’s not what I want? I want them to understand.” He exhales. “I want them to see the pictures I’ve taken and know what they mean.”

“Which is?”

“I was there. This is what I saw. This is who I was. This is what happened to us.”

“And?”

“And what happened to us was not… nothing.” He looks at Louis again, frowning slightly. There’s something incredibly pure in his eagerness, in his desire to be listened to, to be understood. Louis wants to tell him that he will. That if no one else gets him, Louis will always be there, and will always do.

“It wasn’t nothing,” Harry continues. “It was harsh and unforgiving and just because we seemingly escaped it unscathed doesn’t mean it’s all fine, you know? I want. I want them to know that we fought you and I. The five of us. That we fought so hard, until we could barely breathe. That sometimes it felt like we would never laugh again. I want them to know us for what we were. I want them to see us - and know. And at the same time, I don’t want to have to tell them that.”

“No?”

“No. That’s why I took pictures, I guess. Because it’s easier, or like an easier way to protect myself. I want them to know, but I don’t want to have to tell them.”

“I think”, Louis starts carefully, “that you’ve done everything you could. Some people will get it and some won’t. Some will just be delighted and feel like they know us because of a bunch of pics and some will just be plain bored. But like, that’s not really what tonight is about, you know? Tonight is about you, telling a story. Your story. If people don’t want to hear it well. There’s nothing you can do.” He shrugs. “Harry please look at me?”

He does.

“I was there too. And what I saw, what I was, what happened to me was you. I mean, all the rest too, but mostly – it was you. “

Harry laughs, softly.

“It was you too.”

“So, let’s get ready yeah? Your first exhibition as a London photographer, can’t be late for that!”

“Yeah, of course. Lou?”

“Yeah, babe?”

“Can you help me with my tie?”

And Louis laughs, joyous and unbothered. “Of course, I can. That’s what I’m here for, isn’t it?”

\----

The art gallery where Harry’s exhibition is taking place is in Soho. They arrive there a bit early, Harry wanting to make sure that everything is perfect. Louis wanders through the alleys, taking in the pictures. The truth is, he’s seen them countless of times, has helped Harry choosing which ones should be put on a display and which ones should be kept aside; but it’s different to look at them and think that a few hours from now, the most influent people in London’s art sphere will get to see them and judge them too.

_I was there. This is what I saw. This is who I was. This is what happened to us._

There are a lot of pictures of Louis, Louis sitting on the rooftop of their New York flat, Louis in the Factory, Louis on the playground. And he thinks – _I understand what you meant._

No matter how beautiful, how incredibly pure those pictures are, they are only reflecting tiny moments of time. Moments, which Louis has no idea what people will make of. They’re both capturing the truth and selling a lie. There’s no way, Louis thinks, people could really get the truth. They weren’t there, with them. They didn’t see Louis grabbing Harry’s hand, they didn’t witness the endless conversations between them, they didn’t see them broken and crying. All they can have is this, pretty stilled pictures. It’s a lie but a honest one. And, maybe, this can be enough.

\---

The first guests arrive before Louis’s had the time to check on Harry again and he’s suddenly on welcoming duty. He greets guests and smiles at them and thinks – _you don’t know about us. You don’t know about war._

When it seems that everybody is here, Harry goes up on the stage that’s been set up for him and smiles.

“Hi,” he says. “First of all, thanks to all of you for coming tonight?"

People in the audience laugh and cheer.

“It means a lot to me. And, like, I guess this exhibition means a lot to me too. Five years ago, I decided to go to New York to establish myself as a photographer. And while I had my fair share of success, I couldn’t have predicted the political events that would lead us to the situation we’re now in. The thing I want to say is, I love this city. I’ve loved it with my whole heart, even when it was abandoned and left as discarded. I’ve never stopped taking pictures, because taking pictures is the best thing I can do.”

“There are,” he inhales, “many people I want to thank. I should thank. Most of them are on those walls, if you’re curious. So, Zayn, Niall, Liam, this is for you. But, most of all, I want to thank Louis.”

He looks directly at Louis, and everybody else does, and it feels like Louis can barely breathe.

“Louis. You have been the most amazing, loving person I could ever have hoped to meet. I wouldn’t be here if not for you, for your unwavering support, for your utter faith in me and what I’m able to do. You have,” Harry says,” given me the greatest gift I could ever have hoped for. You made me feel alive and like there was something to look forward to, when all my days were gray. So thank you.”

He stays silent, for a bit, before continuing:

“You guys have given me the greatest possible happiness at times where I couldn’t even remember what happiness felt like. I won’t forget this. I won’t forget you. For those wondering what this exhibition is about, well. Let’s say, it’s about a lot of things. It’s a story about five lads getting together and loving each other. It’s a story about two people finding each other, despite all odds. It’s a story about the sacrifices you are ready to make and how you deal with them afterwards. Most of all, I think, it’s a story about love and war. In the end, the only thing I can tell you is to enjoy it and to get whatever you can from it. I’ll be here, if you have any questions. Please have fun.”

\---

“How was the final battle?” a woman asks Louis.

“Well it wasn’t the final battle, really?” Louis answers. “I mean, it was for us, but things are still happening there. “

“Oh, of course,“ she giggles.

“It was. Brutal,” Louis says. “I don’t know how else to put it.”

The woman sips her glass of champagne, and Louis can see the disappointment radiating from her. He wishes, for a moment, he had better things to tell her. Explosions and epic sword fighting. But the truth is, he’d spent most of his time next to Harry, making sure Harry didn’t die.

Battles, he thinks, aren’t only guns and bullets and red blood. Sometimes, it’s making sure you’re still able to breathe, every morning. That you’re still alive. That’s what he did when he was there and that’s what they’ve been doing since they came back. There’s only so many wars you can win. 

\---

They’re all bundled on the small balcony, smoking except for Liam and Niall.

“So, what did you think of the exhibition boys?” Louis asks.

“It was great,” Zayn says,

“It was like, being back there for a moment, “ Niall murmurs. “Like nothing had changed and we were still…”

“Yeah,” Liam exhales. “It was a lot. Beautiful Harry but a lot.”

“And a lot of pictures of Louis,” Zayn laughs, “which was predictable I guess.”

Harry laughs and this is it. This is them. On a small balcony overlooking London. Like it was them on a rooftop in New York, on the floor of a disaffected factory in Brooklyn.

“I’m glad you are here,” Harry says. “I’m glad you’ve come.”

“Hey, mate, we’re still on for this barbecue at yours next Sunday, right?” Niall says.

“Yeah, of course you are,” Harry answers.

They will all scatter again soon enough, Louis thinks. But for a small moment in time, on this balcony, on this specific night, they’re all together again and it suddenly seems easier to breathe.

Louis looks at them and can only think – we’ve made it. We survived. Against all odds, they are here, in London, and ready to go on with their lives. And yeah, maybe it was all worth it. To see Zayn laugh freely, to see Liam unbothered, not acting like he’s carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders, to see Niall looking at them all like they’re the most precious thing he’s ever seen.

They’ve made it.

It feels more like a victory, than winning any battle could ever be.

\--- 

And then the boys go back inside and it’s just the two of them left on the balcony. The city is spreading in front of them like New York used to and there’s something aching in Louis’ heart, something that can’t be mended.

“I am. So proud of you,” Louis finally says.

“Because of the exhibition? “

“Because of it and because of everything else you’ve been.”

Louis turns to look at Harry.

“I don’t think”, he whispers, “two people could have been as in love as we are now.”

Harry smiles, dimples out, and kisses him. They’re on a balcony, kissing, and Louis thinks this is the happiest he’s ever been. He thinks - _it’s only gonna get happier_. He thinks - _I love you, I love you, I love you_.

“We have to go back”, Harry murmurs against his lips and that’s fine – this is fine.

“We will,” Louis says. “We are gonna to. I just want you to know that. You’ve been kind of a miracle. Not like, not that you saved me. But you’ve been here, always here. You’ve talked to me about the things you loved the most and about things you thought I wouldn’t care about but still mattered to you and you’ve been. So so bright. That’s what I want to say. You’ve been so bright. And I love you for it.”

Harry chuckles against Louis’ neck, making him shiver.

“Same, I guess?” he whispers. “You’ve been, in every way, everything I could hope for.”

“I love you,” Louis says. “If there is something I want you to remember it’s that. How I love you. Please never doubt it.”

“I won’t. I love you too.”

Louis looks up at Harry and he is incredibly beautiful and young and bright and there’s a lump in Louis’ throat. _If we had to die today_ , he thinks, _if the world had to end and for everything to vanish there would still be this. There would still be us, there would still be you._

He thinks - _I love you. God, how I love you._ He knows Harry thinks it back.

\---

They go back inside, Louis resuming welcoming duties and Harry playing the perfect host.

“So”, a woman asks Louis, a glass of champagne in her hand, a slight smirk on her face, “Louis, what can you tell us about this exhibition?”

And Louis laughs, he laughs loudly, open and bright and answers:

“Let me tell you a story about war.”

\--- 

_Sometimes there is no ending to the story. You love each other and you love each other and you love each other. `That’s, maybe, the most honest ending you can think of._

_I was there. This is what I saw. This is what happened to us._

_This is whom I loved._

_This was war._

****

****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [tumblr post ](http://cleminism.tumblr.com/post/133613636662)
> 
>  
> 
> If you want to have fun here is the poem called [Ithaka ](http://www.cavafy.com/poems/content.asp?cat=1&id=74) by Cavafy.
> 
> The whole "I was there. This is what I saw. This is what happened to us." thing comes from an article about Antelme and the modalities of auctorial discourse which, if you feel like having fun reading those kind of articles like I do, you can find [ here ](http://semen.revues.org/2362?lang=en). If not, I would still strongly suggest for you to read the Human Species because it's one of the most beautiful, poignant, incredibly sincere pieces of literature to have ever been written. 
> 
> On this note, thanks again for reading. :)

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr post ](http://cleminism.tumblr.com/post/133613636662)


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